Tuesday, December 2, 2014

poem of the day 12.02.14

to a writer who stopped drinking

i guess the easy joke is: more for me
you say that you stopped drinking because…it was time
well, you must have found something
that the rest of us stuck down here in the mud
are still searching for
or else you’re full of shit
you say with alcohol you always wanted
to bring the party
well, there was your first mistake
it’s easy to love the company of the multitudes
when drinking
hell, i love everyone when i’ve had five or six
only i do it from within the privacy of my own home
i’m willing to bet that this was all a ploy on your part
a way to get you back in the pages of the new york times
with that over-used sinatra quote
because your articles on the club scene were dull
and your investigative journalism went nowhere
why not give up writing instead?
from where i sit, man, it seems the safer bet
but, no, it was the booze that left you hollow
it had to be
couldn’t be the lump of writerly shit
staring back at you in the mirror every morning
the man who could no longer get the word down on the paper
it was the hangovers
those dirty, dirty hangovers that you got once a week
i had a hangover once for two months
and you didn’t see me writing about it in a national paper
and, yes, i know no one asked me to but…
this all seems so trite
another writing doing battle with the bottle and winning
another writing doing battle with the bottle in general
and fucking writing about it
why not be the writer who gave up oranges
they’re in season now
so at the very least you’d be topical once again
maybe now your liver will give out
out of boredom and neglect
maybe some sober chippy will give you herpes
you can start a book club to pass the DTs
instead of sipping gin and tonics at happy hour
and telling people who wasted you are
or maybe you can finally go to sudan and get real
change the world
win a pulitzer
write a memoir’
and have one of your recovered buddies
write a breathtaking review of it
so that he (or she) can concur with all that you’ve gone through
in your journey toward sobriety
you wicked old drunk you
then come awards time
you can stand there and black tail and a tie
a glass of ginger ale in your hand
a full man in bloom
scanning the room for all of those well-greased swine
standing on your shoulders


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