Drink Me
I’m your last cocktail
of the night, see how you eye
me, little wolf girl
see how you graze
my lip, lick my
skirt?
I was a shaken baby
iced in a metal belly
Now I am the theme song
you’ll hum at moonset
and when you wake
in the noon light you’ll
wear my old familiar throb
like a purple boa, you’ll taste
just like my sugared mouth
I’m your last supper, darling
see all the apostles staring
they know the truth
they know that you’ll drink me
eat me, never resist me.
I’m the blood
and the body, patron saint
of the drowned
I’m looking at you, kid
In my glass skirt
with my fun paper hat
reflected in
this bottle-fillled mirror
I’m so glad
we are together
it’s raining out
what else is there to do
The Zigzag Line
the naked skin, the tender places
that lift to meet, graze to touch
the wet of you, the slide, the press
cannot compete with the fire
of the water, the embossed coaster
fizz and crackle, first pour
of the day
o meeting o communion
of liquid and lip, o grog, o hooch
o upsy freeze, the softest place
on the inner thigh is no contender
nor any sea cave or hidden spring
waters stroked by the slender oar
of the kayak at first light
any trill or flutter – all of these
vanish at 4:00 pm
hour of the first nip, clink, slug
& snifter, all things liquid eclipsing
the feather, the cheek of the neck
hip of thigh, knee of pelvis, pale
of the ale, vitae of the aqua
no lushy darling in the starry dark
no earlobe kiss, no bump and roll
can match the shine of moon
the sauce in the belly,
the salt and the lime
the tiniest glass a god call:
Knock-knock, who’s there
it’s mes-ca-al-i
Mescali who?
Mescali rose
Yes, put this girl on a tab
give her a place in the Friday night
stumble, the hazy drift
of dark light
& forget the rest – it’s all mildly sozzled
what do you wish for
what possible thing
what wet dream could be wetter
than this waking wet dream
o sauce and the jimjams
the afterstumble throb
warm breeze
and deep tremens
and here you are again
in the stuckness, the grimness
the o darlin’you chose this
3 sheets to this wind
Martini Tattoo
It always happens
Autumn arrives
& it’s all cocktails, all the time
KGB, Buddha Bar
Space Billiards, the Hall of
North American Forests
deerskin-flasking Drambuie
with Schwendeman’s
noble American bison, and later
with Crab Louis at Ludwig
Bemelmans at the Carlyle
gold-medal
worm-in-the-bottom, straight
up, dry/salty & maraschino
shotgun darts with your
Sour Mouse, Christina
Because you are 24 and still
have your Bat Mitzvah shawl
That is when you met your first
bo-ray peri ha-gafen
became that woman
who left her sober child
behind
Bless me, bless me patron saints
of whisky and rye
baptize me with Sophie’s
holy water, on Second Avenue
shaken hard
by some serious
cheetah-gloved hands
Float a cocktail onion
gracefully at the bottom
of me, light me up
in the butterscotch moonlight
Pour me another because
we are on the lower east side
and we are 24
and lit from within
lit from without
there’ve been fire works
in the bottom of the whole
decade, the planet careening
on its axis, this is the way the world
Ended, this is the way that world
ended, this is the way your world
ended, not with a kiss, but a cork
pop and hiss, the blur, the blur
the beautiful blur of your Exene
polyester, your Super 8 face
your tattered knee
highs, your famous Saturday nights
at Sophies with Ray and
his amigos, with its no sign
and scraped-up pool tables
and the pull of Saturn
and the lull of the apple
the ginger of the lemon
the drop of the chocolate
the watermelon
the dirty
Oh-say-can-you-still-see them—
all the girls in consignment
store furs, patent leather
boots, stick-and-poke
Goldilocks, with one shaved side
Blessed be all the dive bar poets
& vodka rabbis of the lower east side
who poured us their best drinks
those last drinks, the on-the-house
drinks, the just-one-more drinks
& we drank them all
and always came back
because they knew us
they knew our names
Alien Buddha Press 