As I perch on this stool, my hand dashing
across the dancing paper to the vibe
of bongos and a disco beat -
I swear the room is spinning -
I dare to say what was tacit,
the glass of raspberry tinted Pinot Noir ample,
that crisp taste of melodious nectar
enticing my tongue to spill succinct truths
without worry that perhaps there are consequences
of haphazard words by an inebriated bum.
Heck, it was only two glasses, or possibly four.
I ponder; was the foray of my ex entering
my life a clandestine opportunity,
or a desperate ploy to repel me
from admitting the blatant truth:
that I was over him long ago?
But, I am enamored by his attention,
as I consume a another gulp of ambrosia.
Red flags pop up whenever he is denied
full immersion in his twisted, frail ego,
since I can now quickly assimilate
when the evil beast that lurks
beneath will make an unwelcome
appearance. For now, sweet pleasantries
and charming sentiments are exchanged
forsaking my normally irritable soul.
The truth is, I still want him on some level,
his hand caressing my neck sending shivers
down to the small of my back.
How pathetic, my inner critic challenges!
It’s not my fault that I participate
in this charade: the alcohol an ether
to my tethered brain. I assent
to five more minutes of his gibberish –
I love you Boo! I am forever yours! –
as I hang up the telephone blaming
the feeble cell call reception for causing
the ruckus as I send him a scrupulous text
rather than requiring that we converse
directly with one another.
I understand it is wrong, just like when I inform
my roommate that the dress she is wearing
is a combination of a clown carelessly clad
in a harrowing muumuu, like a Freddy Krueger
Halloween costume, minus the gloves
with the razor sharp blades, that I feel certain
she wishes accompanied the outfit,
so she could bleed me dry, the reckless victim
of a cunning werewolf’s snack.
“I am sorry,” I manage to blurt out. “I am immersed
in my second decanter.” But, she has now scurried
into the kitchen, a silver mouse on the hunt
for a mere morsel of stale Swiss cheese
glaring like a dog with rabies, foaming
at the mouth with glistening fangs.
I must pull it together before I become a nameless
face on an obliterated milk carton.
My other housemate hesitantly paces
outside the kitchen where I have been burrowing,
like a bristling bear in a cozy cave,
after opening yet one more bottle
of enchanting elixir that lingers
like sour vinegar, surely pickling
my fingers, toes, and liver.
He is arguing with his partner over an infidelity
that occurred last summer when they dissolved
their tryst, and then reunited one weak later,
a time prior to his residing with me.
“Chris,” he chastises into his phone,
“you seriously don’t want to quit your job
as a clairvoyant, and as for us,
it's over.” Slam!
That is when it all permeates the brain,
arousing my defective memory,
as to who this Chris is, that lusty romance
that lasted three days, and four nights,
and like a truth serum, the sentences I mutter
require me to spill my billowing bowels,
as I blurt out the visceral truth.
It’s the wine, I ponder, leery that another human
will chance upon my decaying body
before bloodhounds find me buried
under the floorboards of the wine cellar,
obscured by the Persian rug in the living room,
beneath the piano that possesses
a thousand thunderous, twisted secrets
of duplicity and blasé confidences,
that precipitate a crystal clear extinction.
Attribute it to the alcohol, I concede,
as my final thoughts begin to blur,
dodging the sharp blade aimed for my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment