I remembered someone mentioned Elton John
and my restrained surprise,
unblinking eyes,
when I licked the little gap
between my teeth
and thought almost immediately
about the gap between his teeth--
Elton John's.

And I wondered for a brief
and unrelaxed recess in time
if I were Elton John,
if I were everyone--
but I was drunk.

And then I wondered on my walk
back from the bathroom where I stood
but failed to pee,
If we are not always drunk
on something or some-other-thing.
My brain relates these states of mind
in esoteric code for my eyes only
as if it were not the wine,
the cheese,
the time,
wheels inside the air purifier whining,
the dreams I had last week,
the pen I couldn't find,
the rice and beans,
the bleak suggestions of such modern times,
and countless leaves of books about my life
that make me feel alive
or beg for death
or draw strained breath
or drink more sour wine.

And I wonder why I write these things
like I'm some James Joyce
or a Robert Louis Stevenson look alike.

It's all just playfulness and trite.
And trite is the pipe organ blood bath of my heart.

04/21/2013

Author's Note: Stream of consciousness jam.

Posted on 04/22/2013
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