Monday, February 16, 2009

Post-Valentine's Vivid Drunken Dream, Part 1 (Succès Fou) [February 16th | 45/365]

It was dusk somewhere
in the Southwest. My father
explained to his underling work buddy
why his son had been drinking

so heavily. As the huge moon
and the mountains loomed, blown-
up as if we'd taken a picture, frozen
as the grass stabbing our feet,

he presumed to tell the story
I had told to patient friends
so many times. He told it
like the joke I suppose

it is. "He was hoping
there'd be a little--oh, Steven,
what word am I looking for?
It sounds like an exotic bird,

starts with an 's,' I think..." Sarah,
I thought, and what peace the moon
had poured over me steamed away.
"Everything I ever care about,"I said,

"you mock," and threw my rag
at his hair, and stormed off, knowing
I would do the same to myself, wishing
I could bear to look the moon in the face.

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