DRUNKARD by BEN JACKSON

The minister said I was a drunkard
because I had refused the tenets
of his patriarchal orthodoxy.

He grasped my hand
and told me of blind Saul
who was full of hell and bad spirits.

So I went on another spree
to test the accuracy
of his benediction.
... The spirits nearly killed me
and left me questioning the benignity
of all gods and the veracity of all liquor ads.

There was a moment during the first pint
in which I could envision
a god putting warmth in conversation
and generosity in bartenders
and music in nickelodeons.

Three times I drank to him!
... Then I drank to the fat distiller.

A quart later I fought in a maelstrom
of fiery confusion
and started for many destinations simultaneously.
I strutted with the calculated paces
of a tadpole, tumbling sideways through a broken levee.

Later, god and the distiller became
Siamese alchemists
and I choked on their free phials of perfidy
and sent my snakes after them.
... but the snakes came back, heads shaking,
and I slit their tongues
as they coiled and squirmed
in shame-faced disloyalty.

I lay among my serpents and wept
and we spent eons worming back
to the barroom
and the blond lady in the mirror.

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