What Is Life About

 

Hennessy, magical Hennessy,
drunk on revelry,
consuming kerosene with loneliness and lethargy, 
EQ and energy conserved with self-abusive tendencies — 
wait, no. That ain’t what this about.

Silence is suicide, groans, and shattered bones,
Screwtape’s sign, sealed, delivery of souls in solitude
to Lucifer’s bowl.
Wait, no. That ain’t what this about.

Summa cum laude, summa cum shout
till ya throat gives out and ya mouth dries up
from selective memory,
I mean those weeks of nausea, ghost friends,
crumpled journal entries, and empty prayers.
Keep shouting till the papers and clubs and love notes and dreams
no longer keep you awake.
Shout till you learn how to speak.

Fight till your vessels burst from the pressure of the King
in your blood,
till your ribs crack
from the stones of those you love

because no one’s love is perfect.
No one’s art is ever just right. 
We always have something to critique, 
something to doubt, or question
because we still seek salvation.

I still seek glory, 
still dream that my words will fertilize the soil of the souls around me,
that my melodies will prick the dark and tickle the night
into submission

but who will choose to use the cool logic of a wise fool?
Don’t play, misuse, or confuse yourself.
Hennessy, suicide, and degrees all end the same,
all end in sleep.
But that ain’t what this about.
And I don’t have the answer,
I’m just as useless and clueless as you.

But truth is

you can’t see the cosmos in the moon from the tipsy ebb of your bourbon.
You can’t perceive the deep from the surface,
can’t believe the uni in the verse when your head stuck in the earth,
bones stuck in the dirt in the box in the hearse of human habits. 
I see more freedom in rabbits.
I see lost freedom in laughter.

I see glory only after I’ve drowned and hit the deep bottom,
where the Rock sleeps.
Pull out the Hennessy though,
let me feel,
let me bleed,
my mouth closed as I chase these paper dreams,
cause that ain’t what this about.

 

Cover Photo by Blake Connally on Unsplash