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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