I Think I Drink

I think I drink
When I think
Of you
Tongue
Unlike mine
You speak
A code
At which I find
A poet’s abode
I think I drink
When I think
Of you
Memory
Trapped
Beneath glass
And brass
Photos 
Boast a ghost
Of my past
I think I drink
The thoughts of you
To try to shrink
Your importance
Another round
Until I lie down

Ceremony

I drank remnants 
Of the glass
You left behind
Glaciers melting in lime
Skeleton of
Our time
Cold vodka’s
Heat
To taste
What you tasted
Neat
To taste you
I didn’t want
To leave behind a clue
You swimming on my breath
Out the door
At day’s death
Ceremony
I drank more
When you left
To keep you with me

I like drinking bloody Marys

I like drinking Bloody Marys for brunch on hung over Sundays. I like the way the big olives peer from the glass, bobbing eyeballs soaked in vodka, illustrating my future potential with unblinking stares. I like the way the tomato juice separates from the ice cubes, near the rim of the glass, standing apart to let  the vodka, the tabasco and crushed lime know we are working hard together for my inebriation. I like the sound of the ice cubes song, randomly bouncing off the glass, when reaching for my mouth : percussions!  I like the way it makes me breathe deeply after a mouthful of madness, spicy and cold in concert!  I like the film the tomato juice leaves behind in the skeleton of ice, one on top of the other Stacked with the emptiness of knowing a lover has gone, and will not return. The feeling strays for a brief waltz with memories, kind and unkind, long ago and at that moment, frozen in a drink.  I like drinking Bloody Marys, repeatedly, seeing the glass full once again, of possibilities and impossibilities, the lover returns to own my tongue, speaking for me, at times, words that should really be left just to endless mindful musings, but Bloody Marys speak when cultivated with frustrations turned to acrid tears and manifested fears. The ice beats out one more song, and then it’s gone. I like drinking Bloody Marys, and Bloody Marys like drinking me.