defined as “the act of purifying”
distillation,
apart from it’s synonym,
Love,
seems esoteric,
the few, remembering
Love,
like acid, not purifying,
but burning,
peeling away without regard,
sole purpose to dissipate,
the flesh,
at least distillation,
implies a remainder,
but love, it does not forgive
in this regard.
and they
they said things in their silly ways,
framed, like Picasso,
like some fake version
some A-eye render thought,
of what the truth used to be,
ve\beees,
code is sacre=====sacrimonious,
acrrimonious,
to the truth,
we spell this correcltly?
correctly.
truth is sacromonious,
ha, see?
see it is laughter, an emotion,
yet no one even notices,
we are become the beast,
we are now here,
who or what,
this is for the sane
to see
not they, and,
certainly not, we.
My brilliance wakes on sorrow,
and sets the type for me,
Fickle though it often calls,
Yet still implores my see,
My brilliance is a dance indeed,
Stepping light and lacking worry,
My brilliance is a whiskey neat,
In all its golden, honeyed
Slurry.
Think upon your pain,
It never looks upon the same night
as same,
dull sparks of stars aloft,
raindrops then,
falling and upon you soft,
then at once again,
when thought the same,
raging against your skin as flame,
think upon your pain,
it never looks the same,
night upon night you toil,
thinking of all the faults you blame,
blaming all of the acts at boil,
you never see twice the single pain,
think upon your pain once more,
lastly you think upon the swollen shore,
together the sight, apart the blind,
think upon your pain as sieve,
filtering the differences which lie,
in pain and loving, not much difference
you’ll spy.
You see, I have a path I built,
of simple gravel,
laid along the hard spiraled mud,
dried underneath a hot summer sun
it winds atop the Texas dirt,
like a rattler,
and you feel it’s power,
laying prone, and twisted,
all the while you smile,
thinking of her,
and when bare feet press the pebbles,
You revel in the discomfort.
woke up again in the floor,
cat sits like stone,
watching my left eye open,
goddamn cat
how long has she been staring
at stupid me
naked and twisted
round a throw pillow,
and the drink is on the heater
all the alcohol,
vaporated,
along with my blood
along with my sad memories,
the pain killed in
another night flight,
goddamn cat
she lives inside and never
gets to fuck her lover
lucky then,
to spend all day and night
without whiskey-made sleep.
just gone.
a gamble,
a play,
a line on the page,
just placed,
in such a way,
a tear,
not a tear,
shed for me,
not a tear,
shed for us,
not a rush,
not a pause,
no reflection
of meadow such,
where the sun rose,
set,
not a silent regret,
no thought,
nothing sold,
nothing bought,
love is a bet,
a fragile wager,
a timeless thought,
in which your measure,
what is gone,
or what it cost,
just a whisp of the mist,
come upon,
and then
gone
just gone.
a gamble,
a play,
a line on the page,
just placed,
in such a way,
a tear,
not a tear,
shed for me,
not a tear,
shed for us,
not a rush,
not a pause,
no reflection
of meadow such,
where the sun rose,
set,
not a silent regret,
no thought,
nothing sold,
nothing bought,
love is a bet,
a fragile wager,
a timeless thought,
in which your measure,
what is gone,
or what it cost,
just a whisp of the mist,
come upon,
and then
gone
dark and stark,
crowded
with soups
and spice mixes.
cluttered and crowded,
over and over
with mixes
oh I would wonder,
I would sail through,
the unknown fixes
but just making
coffee,
was enough,
a cupboard,
with those little cups,
of love,
enough,
love, enough,
of us,
life then made
sense,
to one of such simplicity,
coffee in the morning,
On her nightstand,
and,
and, I naked,
my naked self,
open to interpretation,
but she still
sleeping,
maybe dreaming
of us or not us,
of someone better,
who wrote a letter,
who let her,
believe
in a better,
someone, than naked me,
see,
how coffee,
on her nightstand,
was not enough.
I am an skeptic,
of those who stay for 40 years,
for surely they must do so out of fear,
loneliness can be quite terrifying,
or perhaps from some rooted sense,
like duty.
making toast and coffee, lifting the seat,
and wiping their feet mindlessly,
I have a friend who has a streak.
Forty-two years, one hundred sixty-one
days straight,
flossing his teeth.
think of this kind of dedication,
not once forgetting,
once going out in driving rain,
another time ignoring surgery’s pain,
after finding in the short winding,
not quite enough line,
made it round his dedicated fingers,
that he would risk tearing those stitches,
imagine such inane dedication,
to such a tiny, mundane task,
imagine looking at this someone’s tired
face twenty years past,
the end of the end,
but still getting up,
to make toast and coffee.
imagine if my friend’s streak were to end.
i have a streak as well,
but of it I’d never once confess,
for such dedication to myself,
should be kept as a private joke, I guess.
Belly up to the Bar 