I make my prayer to those who, like Indra,
ever delight in much drink—
– Rig Veda
I
Eleven o’clock.
Morning comes in a heat wave
through the cracked window of our room
waking me unwillingly, but what can you do
when it’s already ninety-two?
Your body sticks to me like my own sweat—
a certain thirty percent proof.
Drank too
Smoked much
Loved too much last night.
Your eyelashes flutter as I lift myself
to begin again.
My lungs are angry, of vulgar voice
grinding and grating and spitting syllables
of I-told-you-sos, still
I search the last cigarette under clothes
scented with neglected bodies, under meager
paycheck stubs we were eager to cash,
under newspapers from last month’s scandal.
Is the United States still at war?
Your breath moans in a dream
as I open the door.
The eleven o’clock morning
awakes with stale smells
of beer and here and over there
are last night’s leftover bodies
drowning in last night’s memories
and ashtrays spilling with last night’s
deep and meaningfuls;
cans and bottles
the implements of wonderment
of last night’s merriment.
I climb over clutter, uncaring
who is who or what it is.
The eleven o’clock morning
spreads through the kitchen
like the heat that seeps through the floors
and under the doors and somehow drips
from the ceiling.
Upstairs you flutter and the bodies clutter.
I cling to cleaning so tonight we may begin again.
II
A summer day.
Can we waste our lives away if only
for today? It is one o’clock.
Blow up the raft and I’ll make the drink
call it Soma, because intoxication was worshipped once
when heat was drier and religion
was higher and debauchery was sane.
Careful hands, an artful heart and a bottle of Golden Grain;
cherries floating, watermelon sinking and oranges
splashing color. So float down the Chattahoochee
with me in your arms and the water at your feet
and Soma in a plastic green jug
as the city climbs in a dreamy haze,
Atlanta so lazy in soggy heat.
It’s best if we stay off the crowded street.
Float down the Chattahoochee with me
because it’s best on water in a city in a sauna
and if we become blurry like the skies in our eyes
let’s stick together. I’d so hate to drown
in this blistering town in the river that runs
through pine trees and factories.
Let Soma bind us in revelry,
let revelations come gently, so gently
gently pushing us
to begin again.
III
There’s too much light in your eyes
on our drive down Interstate 95.
It’s five o’clock in the afternoon;
let’s eat at the neighborhood lake.
A few drops of Soma for our sun-dried tomato
and black olive pie.
The sun will leave just as my hair will dry
and I will wipe the light from your eye.
Seven-thirty evening
and the lake laced with corroded condoms
and bottle ships floating on a forgotten mystery
of mallards and water – where has the time gone?
With Soma somewhere.
Somewhere with Soma.
In the car we copulate because there is no time
and surely the heat waited long through the year
surely the light waited quiet through the night
surely Soma waited in its jug
but there is no time for us to wait
so in the car we copulate.
We do it. We fuck.
We fuck.
IV
Let’s enter our house and sleep in our bed among the clothes
and crumpled notes and newspapers we should have recycled
with the bottles and the cans I recycled this morning
at eleven o’clock.
And we sleep. And we dream.
V
The night wakes me with the moon in our room.
Your eyelashes flutter
and I kiss them in the shadow.
The sun is gone
and it’s cool now.
I hear footsteps at the entrance of our house.
They come in pairs to play that game—
the one with colored balls that goes so well
with green bottles lining green felt.
Did I tell you that your eyes make me melt
like the sun on my skin in the heat
on the raft at one o’clock this afternoon?
Too bad we lost the green ball
and use another red instead.
I lose you when they come in pairs,
when the house fills with smoke
and my ears loud with jokes.
Did you hear the one about the Jewish porn star?
Hardy hardy fucking har.
If I could find you I would make you mine
on the cold bathroom tile where we would defile
the Comet that makes the bathroom smell so good.
VI
Tomorrow.
There is tomorrow
like there was today.