Ode to the Porcelain God

Does anyone remember "Thirsty Thursdays?" 

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.

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.