Author: Sydney L.
Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.
He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.
Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.
And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.
It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back
That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:
Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower
Than Miracle
Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.
He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.
Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.
And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.
It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back
That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:
Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower
Than almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.
But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.
almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.
But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.
