KB
I.
As if I’d know what it’d mean, you said
you saw me in a half-forgotten dream.
It seems I’m to beat to quarters with a
great hullabaloo & giddy whoops seeped in
the intoxicating fumes of drunken victory
snatched from the remains of my most
recently drained bottle of wine.
II.
In Vino Veritas, I can’t recall its vintage.
It must’ve been halfway decent since I rarely
drink swill. Well, except for most days,
all day, & twice on payday.
III.
It’s hardly habit-forming or evidence of
a malfunction in my cranial chemistry.
Hopefully, it’s a cosmic joke, not the quirk
of a few dozen misfiring synapses.
They were so damnably close to the
correct formula but fudged it when
the overseer was on his smoke break.
IV.
I can hardly bemoan their
shoddy craftsmanship because I’ve
cut a few corners in my time on Earth.
I think I should get my brain judiciously examined,
but my doctor assures me he can’t do it
until I die. Trying to win a smile,
I tell him not to threaten me with a
good time. Stone-faced, he neglects to oblige.
V.
Thankfully, I see his nurse’s eyes crinkle above
her surgical mask. Huzzah! My mostly
mediocre performance didn’t bore the entire
audience to tears. Perhaps she’s doing it to
be polite & put my insecure mind at ease.
That, indeed, I’m not the butt of the joke;
she’s laughing with me, never at me.
VI.
I’d take a sardonic chuckle thrown in
the general direction of anywhere I’ve been
in the past few years to feel like someone
has seen my shadow flit from then to there.
Lingering overlong on thoughts solitary,
I probably qualify for clinical neuroticism.
VII.
Or maybe that’s the hyper-focus imbued by
over-imbibed Adderall, ensuring I ingest only
nicotine, regret, & caffeine. Then again,
neurotic is just another word for cliché, as
starving artist is a trope most passe.
VIII.
I can’t appropriate Victorian-era opium nor
possess the inclination to contract consumption,
tuberculosis, or whichever wasting disease best
catches your fancy. Though a failure to thrive
really did wonders for the old cheekbones,
my god, those portraits were sharp enough
to cut your morning toast with, & no,
I don’t want beans on my portion,
thank you very much.
IX.
Anglophobia is obviously alive & well because
that’s one gastronomic ideal you shan’t
imprint upon my poor, unwitting lizard brain.
Painfully, you nudge me in the ribs.
Inhaling sharply, I shoot a look that screams,
what pray tell, was that for? Smiling knowingly,
you raise an eyebrow almost imperceptibly,
your forehead perfectly unlined by
life’s laughable absurdity.
X.
You’re unperturbed by the troubles of
foolish mortals like myself, who suddenly
understands he overuses the phrase
lizard brain with hackneyed clumsiness.
My flash of recognition must be
evident because you stifle a snort &
squeeze my leg reassuringly.
Yes, I’m alive, &
you’re still sitting next to me.
XI.
I’m the luckiest son of a gun this
side of the Rio Grande, & though not a
betting man, I’d wager your brain against
anyone across the land. You’d run rings
around their roses while collecting
pocketfuls of posies & did you know
that nursery rhyme is about the bubonic plague?
XII.
With a glance, you hush me as that’s the
seventh time I’ve mentioned that anecdote at
your family’s potluck. They’re sadly steadfastly
unilluminated to the truth scribbled in your
old high school journal, reminding us that
real eyes realize real lies.
