Drinking to the mind is a precarious toast.
After all, those of us authentic in our
bottles often think so little, yet drink the most.
Turning upward from a pour, while the swirl
of amber fluid swells the glass with curls
of fire, losing thoughts and winning girls.
I had attentions of many, the times
when least I needed their churlish glares,
dotting the far reaches beyond my glass of rhymes.
Low in the chair, slumped and stretching idly by
as they flustered on and on of sand dabs and
cold lobster salad, Pinots, oh the rot, and I
continued sitting idly by and bearing it all
within a single eye, the other fixed shut, its
ball seen bobbing in the honeyed pall of my rye.
Suddenly thrusting hand in sky and holding to the table
I rise in unsteady thought and shout, “a toast of toasts!”
my thoughts of marvelous, old, Communism clear, though I, unable
to form the syntax for such a clotted crowd of bores,
instead rain praise upon the night, giving sullen nods
to thinking men who write in hopes of paying for their drunken whores.
A toast is a precarious drink to mind it seems.
The inauthentic down their watered whiskies late into
the night, while furring frozen brows toward drunken poets’ dreams.