“This mutual condition of my heart and my head

starts with a glass of the best, the noblest rot,

sweet stream of kisses all the way down the tongue

and esophagus, into the gut, where there’s nothing

but knots—bouncing, fluttering mad to unravel

hyper strings—this is my constant instability.”

 

I shut up and glanced about the doctor’s office, absent the whining

and wailing of the ER, but dense with smokers’ laughs, and jokers’

coughs.  I was assured the best specialist for my type would,

of course, set up in the backroom of a bar.

 

The doctor finished writing, then closed his eyes,

consulting the loyal theories that had stayed since he was robbed

kindly of his license.  He smiled broadly, then said:

 

“Children lie about many things

because they don’t know any better.

Adults lie about most things

because they do know better.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You’re fooling yourself.  Forget blaming alcohol;

you will never be fit, right in the mind enough to talk

to an attractive woman without salivating, spitting vitriol

instead of intended compliments.  Your lub-dubbing heart

will flick all your words, your hob-throbbing brain will trick

your tongue, while you look like a slobbering degenerate.” 

He seemed to speak from experience. 

“No matter what you want, try to say or might think,

you’ll end up fucked.”

 

Well, good—mission accomplished:

I saw someone about my sweet addiction

and learned it wasn’t my problem.  No,

my constitution wouldn’t allow me to stand

still for one date; impossible for me to process

one place and one face at just one time. 

I’d need a new way to stab at relations.

 

Confidence restored, with a resolution in mind,

I rushed out into the bar, ready to purchase multiple glasses

for multiple women, while winking and asking them

about their space-curving dimensions.