On
Another Birthday Drinking
On
the other side of youth, I feel pain between my knees
as I hang my eyes to dry on this clothing line of
time.
The ocean of my years engulfs my inner strength
like a sea sickness which converts the toilet before
the drunken sailor
into a holy receptacle of sins that each have a karmic
residue.
I vomit the past in the name of a father I did not
have
for I am the son hung over with tortured memories,
moving at mercurial speed, wet and runny through my
hands.
In
the sobriety of mourning, photographs are enigmatic
stills
with questionable likeness
and more like actors
in a made for TV drama,
where I am older before death,
who forbids usage of the rewind mode.
Sifting
nostalgia for the peaks when the mirror is my witness,
gold is in the memory
washed upon the shore
of some romantic notion.
Prior
lovers have come to wish me well one by one, each
with a kiss
for reaching Thirty-six,
my future before I counted decades
and learned the trade of negotiating
body
parts for endurance.
