Written After a Night Out With Friends

Languorous from Indian,

Drunken from wine and beer,

I rest my head on this downy pillow,

And speak long, and loud, and languorously,

As only a drunkard can, about drunkenness

And about dreams—two of life’s necessities.

Dreams are just memories, of course,

That float from one’s head and hover before

One’s eyes which you can shape and shift 

To form whatever it is you please.

Tonight, I want to see: a dragon being ridden by

T.S. Eliot. Or is it Baudelaire? I have been reading 

Both, you see. Eliot, or Baudelaire, is riding this

Great green serpentine beast, with giant fangs

And great blue eyes with red pupils, around and around

the outside of my house. He is looking through my window.
He sees me and winks—poor old sod that he is.

Meanwhile, the lamb meat in my belly sits like

Cement, and the wine and the beer are falling from my eyes

As tears. I think of my dear friends Chris and Caitlin.

Christopher (as Caitlin amorously calls him), 

Is a novelist with an extraterrestrial mien about him,

Caitlin is a couturier. Fiends fresh out of a drinking binge

At the local winery, we manifested enough drunkard’s

Cash to eat at the Indian restaurant across the way.

Drunk as we were, we talked a great deal about scatterings

Of shattered dreams and such and things like

God and truth and justice and Hell and fame and art

And all sorts of talk that I just don’t remember because,
Oh the food was spicy and the beer was rich!

We enjoyed each other’s company and the night was cold,

Snow was falling just a little, I was smoking in the street—

They didn’t mind. So much was said that my head began to reel.

I found myself smiling most of the time as friends do

When the night is wild and fresh and cool.

I found myself yearning for just a nice bed to lay in.

I was tired you see.

Now, here I am, memories floating—dreams.

Bloated belly, I hear myself breathe.

I can sleep, and I can let myself go, if only for the night.

These memories will reappear in some form in my dreams.

The taste of the curry and the lamb and the beer.

The words—thousands of them—will meld into a single word perhaps.

Who knows what that might be. I could be sentimental and say

Oh, the word is love! But let’s not be preposterous.

The word “love” is the loaded gun of poetry.

It should only be used by professionals, and only as a last resort.

Chris would know what I was talking about.

He positively hates sentimentality, though, perhaps

He is full of it himself. Night’s ache and longing are directly proportional

To the day’s meaninglessness. I don’t ache much tonight.

Dear friends, allow me to be sentimental and thank you

For a wonderful night. In a world of shadows and uncertainty,

It is good to know that some things are certain, like laughter,

And chatter, and dreams which seem to float like steam,

Up and up, disappearing in the light.