The curse of alcohol is
that you can never move
away from the town where
you’ve made the bars home.
You can never save up
enough to purchase
a way out of your
problems.
Each shot becomes an expression
of the regret
you can’t swallow, so you
fill your cup again.
You settle for being empty
and never quenched;
and each drink becomes
more desperate than the last.
You cycle between the
highs and lows
of your glass only to come
to understand
you drank yourself away
years ago.
And you can never get that
time back.
And you cope with the
bottles,
and you love them.
Because the booze blacks
out the memory
of your buddy’s head
exploding;
the cold glass feels
better than the warm blood
from when you bandaged
another’s shrapnel wound;
because it was hot in the
desert and the whiskey
pulses flame through your
heart and mind.
