because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

after Charlie B.

Be. Drunk. Break through the chatter like a wrecking ball through brick. End in silence like stone ruins of a monastery. But fill in the space between with something beautiful, something with long drunk legs and glittery drunk eyeshadow, something with pillow-tossed hair and a bottle in her purse. Something with something to say.

Be drunk, he said, and across the ocean they were dying by the thousands, and how hard it was to break through the chatter of shrapnel, the whirring omnipotent smack of hate. Thirsty to believe in something, they died. In fields and field hospitals and camp beds, died drunk on belief in some Cause while their brothers slump-marched home, hungover.

Still, he seems to say, still, be drunk. Because drunk is home. Because drunk is the exotic furtherest edge of guessing. Because drunk is you asleep in my bed on a Saturday night, turning to clutch me close as you snore somewhere far away, the music always too loud, the pen never far from the page.

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4 responses

  1. Mark

    Mr. Bukowski would be flattered – when he sobered up.

    M

    March 22, 2016 at 3:04 pm

    • Ohhhhh. Well, i was thinking of Charles Baudelaire. But Bukowski works too! 🙂

      March 22, 2016 at 3:06 pm

      • Great poem, but I thought it was about Charles Baryansky, famous accountant. I liked the images at the end, embraced in a long sleep, music too loud. Great.

        March 22, 2016 at 6:02 pm

        • lol, Mosk! Accountant! *snorts* Happy almost-April to you, sir!

          March 24, 2016 at 8:28 am

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