To the Artist's Page     To our home page

To Phil Rockstroh's next piece

Disconsolate bargaining under the mercilessly sober sky

First, I stole, slaughtered, and barbecued the Cattle of the Sun, then rendered the left-overs into Celestial Sloppy Joes--

then I fermented the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge into a homemade wine.

And as you might have guessed (or read about in the crime report know as history) this stunt didn't go over too well among the immortals....

It especially tested poorly in the key demographic group know as the Gods....

Now I'm abhorred by the very air-- and banished from the better bars and restaurants from Olympus to Valhalla.

Worse yet-- after-- I have tasted delicacies so rich in the nutrients of the infinite--

the food, beverages, and between meal snacks available on the menu of mortal life have lost their flavor for me.

I am a stricken with these merciless cravings for the Goodies of the Gods, for the Happy Meals of Immortality--

that can only be ordered from the Drive-Thru-Window of the Burger King of Kings....

In other words-- I want to get really drunk-- and stay that way for quite some time. By not simply on ordinary booze:

I long to once again see the dazzle of moonlight upon glasses of red wine culled from the private stock of the Hopeless Drunkards of Eternity--

swoon to the incantations of the High Priestess of Blackouts-- worship in the Cathedral of the Perpetual Last Call--

be moved only to pontificate liturgies of divinely-inspired barroom palaver--

be chosen the Infallible Pope of the Barstool-- be canonized as the Suffering Saint of Hang-Overs--

have my liver rise from the dead on Judgment Day, reborn, restored, and ready for a never-ending Happy Hour in timeless Heaven.

But I have suffered the excommunication of forced sobriety: In the Mythos of Abstinent Gods,

I am a blinded Cyclops of obsession: Stomach groaning within the light-devoid canyons of my empty appetite, wandering in a Dry Drunk Desert:

Jittery: Agitated: Hopeless: Isolated:-- Companions, acquaintances, and my beloved Apostles of Rationalization--

All of them have moved away, or are drunk before noon--

All devoured by addiction or ambition; the dazzle of moonlight on glasses of red wine gone--

Now: the florescent lights of AA meetings glare on Styrofoam cups of tepid coffee....

I share with no one the legends of my lost kingdom of grandiloquent compost: Usurped boy-king, banished from my throne of delirium,

exiled to this banal empire of everyday decay-- lost and listless in this desert of daylight,

hunted under its mercilessly sober sky by the armies of despotic abstinence, stranded in this desiccated land of sanctioned longings....

At midnight, I make vows to Detoxed Angels, who ignore my wane bargaining and go on singing their interminable hymns of ceaseless resentment.

This time, I swear it will be different-- This time, the irksome laws of decay will be repealed;

the vengeful Furies will cease to howl for restitution for my unpaid bartab;

the Mindless Ghost of Drunken Babble will be changed into very Soul of Wit.

My life will change: Leaden afternoons in late July will stretch towards golden evenings in My October,

as the veil of separation will be lifted that partitions the benign grace of all things.

I just know that these graces will be bestowed upon me if I could only learn to get drunk again.

Oh, I know how to drink-- but I seem to have forgotten how to get drunk.

I know how to fall in god damn water-- but I've forgotten how to get wet.

To the top of this page