Sometimes poetry slips into a coma and it can only be conscious in dreams I’ll never remember. I know I know this, but I have no idea how I know I know this. Some things you just know you know and others you think you know. And others, still, you don’t know you know, until you’re drunk and you know you know you’re sounding more and more like Donald Rumsfeld.
But, you know nothing, the wisdom of Socrates, til waking sober to remember nothing of anything you thought you knew. Your only trace to the subconcious is drool on the pillow. Thank God you wrote it all down.
Like the wisdom of W.C. Fields walking into the bar and asking the bartender: “Excuse me, bartender, did you see me come in here last night and put down $20 and drink $2o worth of alcohol?”
Bartender: Yes sir.
W.C. Fields: Whew! What a relief! I thought I lost it!
This state, more, this nation of inebriation, emancipates me to write from the depths of this beer-soaked brain, where corpses of dead love float to the surface like the Ganges River, so holy, yet, so dirty. But, like they told me in Varanasi: “If your mind is clean, the river is clean. If your mind is dirty, the river is dirty.” I must have a very dirty mind, cause, that river looked filthy.
So, where are we? Here, sharing this sentence. Hi! Come here often? It’s my first time in this sentence, too.