| THE EMPTY GLASS
by Gordon Kuhn 1st Draft 2/19/2010 0430 From death I summoned mortal self and painful woke from darkness I mental stumbled, staggered, crawled while blurred vision within a thought that spoke to none while no sound passed from lips came forth or scrawled its simple presence, message, all upon the empty, silent, motionless, nonexistent wind while with blurred sight of that I thought once, read, felt was or had been friend had once been full but now an empty, stained, drying glass set before me then an empty glass where once I thought that truth had run but neither truth or sin were settled then within a tilted landscape revealed the bottle thought surely left full but empty stands the space within glass walls while hungry lips would desperate seek to pull one drop, one taste, to wet a dry aching parched throat, a breath to calm my throbbing soul my brain afire as though within it lay beneath a blazing stack of glowing coal upon there rests a frying pan which sizzles, dark red glows without a drop of oil to soften, calm or aid the cooking toil instead a crimson surface where words like drops of water fell to dance across the surface in dying screaming voices tell “Hey,” the distant voice did break the silent sound and say “we’ve closed and need you now to up and pay and sleep not here you cannot stay.” Oh God, what hell is this where I now exist of lights turned brightly on and noises which won’t resist but in gladness seem to persist in the desire to torture this drunken piece of flesh and bone and each muttered empty word strikes like a heavy stone strikes and shatters stone on stone to gravel scatters shards like glass cut the flesh of that which sober hours before now lies in tatters held by simple mesh of skull bone which in deep despair if I could but shatter upon the wall while coughing empty my stomach up upon the floor in the hall that ought to piss the bastards off that drag me from this corner table cell and roughly deposit me upon the curb wet with rain and in anger tell me to not come back again unless my pocket book is full then would happy sell me life in glass and bottle and my own table against the wall could sit as once before when money graced my pockets and could laugh and sing a bit but now I lay in a tight knit ball, in pain near the filling draining gutter and listen to the rain splash and careless stutter while my clothes grow wet and cold and I realize that for such place as this I’ve only told the story of what my cost was for the drink my life, my job, my health I sold. Copy Write: Gordon Kuhn 2/19/10 Gordon Kuhn |
