Friday, April 13, 2012

"when i was young and drunk on good wine in a forest"

"when i was young and drunk on good wine in a forest"
inspired by music and memories by jake kilroy.

i was in northern california when i finally got "it,"
and "it" was several empty wine bottles
and a buzz that felt like lovemaking.
sleeping by a river that poured its heart out
into the foggy bays of california's top hat,
i drank the finest wine stirred by romantics
that never gave into the poetry of heartache.
the french still can't climb out of a bed
without remembering every bed they've ever abandoned
in the middle of the night, under moonlight,
jumping from one balcony to another,
praying for a god that cheats.
but the winemakers of northern california
put their lovers' whispers and secrets
in the grape stew and it tasted like angel's blood,
sweet and perfect, enough to knock me out
for years of dreams and eons of happiness.
what a time to be alive and drunk on wine,
i thought, as i went into the darkness of the woods
and asked the wild beyond for nothing,
because i had everything i ever wanted.
so i went back to my tent and read
until even the words on the page slurred,
and i listened to the bongo drums of the water
and the chimes of traffic in the distance
that glowed across the massive bridge
that brought me here to this gully.
by sunday morning,
my heart was even full of wine
and it was pulpy and lovely
and it carried yearning
and satisfied aching
in the same beats
that dripped the wine and blood
onto my bones, which stained
with beautiful purples and reds
and i would've given anything to see my insides
look like a carnival with horns and dancing,
but, instead, i watched the mist take the trees home
and give the moon a chance to catch its breath
and sigh until i heard nothing else
but the croaks of frogs and the hum of bugs.
i couldn't stop smiling.
god, i was sick with glory then.
oh, to be young and drunk on good wine
in a forest of overgrowth and mist again,
wondering where home will be,
if it could be so far away,
but beneath your feet somehow,
just a prayer of and for earth
waiting for you to dig your fingers into the dirt
and take wood for use other than fire and paper
and build something that won't ever go to waste.

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