Written by George Gad Economou


having another drink lined up helps ease up

the pain of separation, of having to end another

magnificent affair that can’t compare to any other—meaningless

embraces, cold nights on a crowded bed, empty kisses over hot coffee—where’

s the point in even trying; your next to last drink is brilliant, offers warmth, adds

to the idea-brewing buzz, welcome it, nip it, cherish those few precious moments you

still have one more drink, before the wallet runs dry, before last call arrives, before

the doorman grabs you by the throat and tosses you in a dumpster to sleep it off

with the mongrel methhead cats chasing dizzy on blow mice

order a tall one, a strong one, a goddamn fucking hurricane, a drink that will

make your head swirl and twirl and twist and the stool will look like

a carousel, a wild theme park ride you sneaked into, beasts of all breeds

and kinds will emerge out of purple smoke proffering advice, poems are born in

the mist of the tenth drink, the next to last, the next to blackout, scribble’em

out, they won’t get you anywhere but write them anyway—when sober name

booze justice and daffodils you’ll be golden, man—cocktails napkins

were made for us failed poets, artists of the corner stool whence no soul

leaves unchanged, nor unscathed, barrooms that make sure you’re leaving

the world with a bigger bang than you entered it, and that’s the point; ask

Hunter, Buk, Hem, ask James Joyce and Jackie Gleason, they knew what was up,

they’d cry in their graves if they could see what we’ve become,

Scott’s right there in my hangover, all melancholy and dramatic—like a woman

I once dated and who loathed my boozing—I cry Wolfe and I’m saved by

three highballs of rum and tonic, tequila and orange mixing up cocktails for morning

concoctions that only have one purpose, here’s the meaning as the Chivas showers

the crackling ice cubes, wise men are wise because they knew the good stuff

their advice works, unlike advice from failures in life and failures teaching

creative writing, I swig and Hunter almost drinks with me, the spirit

applauds and scoffs, drink more and go out more he says after the fifth drink

still two in the afternoon good buzz, bars are empty barstools await, in some corner

booth love resides, another healthy pour I’m almost

there while still here while still

drinking mornings away to make sure night finds me destroying

the world and giving birth to new realms


Text © George Gad Economou


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