Yeah, me neither.
I remember showing up at the bar around 11.
I remember waking up hung-over on Friday morning.
The stuff in between is pretty nebulous.
There is one memory that stands out though, probably because I lived it so many times.
Stability, composure: what are these
in the face of holy spirits?
One, two, three dozen spirits
and the world sloshes around
like the contents of my stomach.
Some people go to church.
Not me.
I worship in the men's room.
Some people pray to Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah.
I pray to the Porcelain God.
My throne, His altar,
I kneel before it and
clutch it like a drowning man
to a piece of driftwood.
I am the axis upon which
the world spins and tilts and twirls
like a wobbly top.
like a wobbly top.
Begging for forgiveness, respite,
whatever I can get, He says
"Thou shalt have it, my son,
but first, where's my offering?"
Of course.
The Porcelain God,
selfless, accepting,
his altar like a wet mouth
awaits a sacrifice.
Cast these foul spirits from my body!
Take my offering, mighty God!
Gurgling, gagging, tears streaming,
a mighty geyser surges
and leaves my throat raw.
Relief. Flush.
Sleeping on the temple floor
beneath the Porcelain God's watchful gaze.
Peace at last,
until the morning comes.
Peace at last,
until the morning comes.
