Whiskey and Gin

I have been earnest.  I recall, with conviction, an outstretched hand.

There was once a bustle around finger tips,

a brushing away, an intended forgetting,

unletting each previous permission,

forgiving away what trust was left,

and resigning to love only beyond the mirror, 

where the clock is unwound. 

I swear when I burn my fingers.  But, every 

week there is a morning I forget, and I spill

my coffee-water, and swear again.

I laugh when I turn my ankle, or grin. 

Do I remember how to be earnest?  I woke

my brother up when he was passed-out drunk

and took him to the airport and he made his flight.

But later I made it a story, and I laughed, and I

told him he was lucky I loved him--instead of telling

him I loved him--because I have forgotten how

to be earnest.

And now I'm thinking about whiskey, and gin, 

and how I like them because they are dry and

sophisticated but also honest.  I like the taste

of wood and juniper, and I wish that Wordsworth

had never written, so I could have just had

heartfelt pastoral poems myself.  I want to 

hatch a pastoral poem out of an egg colored with

dada and it will probably be about an Ostrich.

Like this:

The science of aesthetics dictates that an ostrich
with its head in the sand must maintain a background
of blue to compliment its warm and gritty ignorance. 

Furthermore, it must position itself such that it stands
a third of the way across the waiting lions' field of view. 

The lions wait and stare, unable or unwilling to cleave
the conformist composition with a splash of chaotic gore. 

Only when evening winds have blown away the last strains
of color can they pounce and release their prey into the
carnality of now.

But, I have forgotten how to be earnest.