Blueprint of My Mind II
by Scott Utley
My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I'm thinking, one more cocktail
with this blue-eyed slab, (paid for twice over, but never to be owned), will not subdue the
bestial morning’s sadistic appetite. The secret is out, Fire Island tragedies are lurking
under star-crossed pines in paradise. My eyes are held in place midst the wreckage of my face
by shear will. I think, perhaps one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab paid for twice
over, but never to be owned, will obliterate a debauched morning hangover. What about an
aspirin or a bloody Mary? Maybe if I take a dive into the raging blue Atlantic waters of
forget me nows, my sins will be erased along with yesterday and my inhuman slurs and beat you
down puns? Even if the divine in divine mind could muster mercy for my soul, yes, even if I
acquiesce and bow to their Latin liturgies, and I finally see that all my prescriptions are
merely the fleeting tonics of a foolish mind, I will never find repose. Consequently, (I will
not deny this) a loaded Colt 45's horsepower is my medicine of choice. What other elixir will
suffice when you wake early on a brand new day and your mirror is exclaiming, "You’re old,
decrepit, and to boot you’re gay? These are but the rage-dreams of a narcissist’s self-
absorbed preoccupation. In ephemeral brevity, my spirits rise high as the sun glides its way
into mid-day. I take a second look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the
history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me.
I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders?
Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star-crossed pines?
Posted on 05/16/2012
Copyright © 2019 Scott Utley
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by A. Paige White on 05/16/12 at 04:27 PM|
Wow... Hang in there man. Heads are gonna roll. I'm claiming that promise for you!
|Posted by George Hoerner on 05/16/12 at 06:41 PM|
What came to my mind first in reading this was the line from a western song "he/she put a bottle to his/her head and pulled the trigger. I have always said I could not become and alcoholic because it never really changes how I feel and I refuse to get into drugs. You have to decide what it is you want to do and I'm not being judgmental. There have been and always will some really great alcoholic writers. Now the rest of the life may be another story.
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 05/16/12 at 10:39 PM|
Absolutely vicious prose.
|Posted by LK Barrett on 05/17/12 at 11:38 AM|
The sliding see-saw of this draws me back, the precision of the prose is razors. Impassioned and speaking for more than one of us- TY, lk