Here is my paradox: I get drunk often,
And at times opportune, on the wine
Of life. Any and all finds my bloodstream soften
And bulge at the banks: shadows that line
The window like puppetering silhouettes.
Thoughts in the shower that shower me in
Thoughts that maybe, just maybe, I get
Some jots of Spinoza. And this is when I begin
To give over to playful puzzle. I want it prolonged.
Like unearthly sounds of sirens soft
That subdue with inebriated song,
I am lured by my thoughts aloft
Where they are as sensitively held
Up like the wings of the flighted bird.
And the very spirit of the mind alights and melts
Into those things and thoughts that are observed.
I want it prolonged. So enhancement takes
The simple liquid form of
The deepest darkest red, an ambrosial sate,
A transfusional turn toward Bacchus’s blood,
His for mine, so the sirens might sing on.
And shadowed shapes might shimmer anew.
And the showered thoughts might fall upon
A brain like a blade of grass with dew.
But beware. This need for dilation does not
Make inspirative progress swell.
It can transform a man to a bloody sot
And serves to drown those original thoughts that welled
With an all too natural flow,
Then go to drought then seem as dead.
The alluring elixir in a slow
And poisonous meandering thread
Drowns that natural high and more
Than this, cause those thoughts to seep
Outside the realm of the original core
And find them reach for forgetful sleep.
So let those lofty thoughts both wax
And wane in a natural swing and sway.
This is where the wine of life will not tax
The need to force them, nor force them all away.
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