A bottle of red wine sat on his stoic porch stair
it seemed to stare at him with insolence, smug
in knowing the presence of gravity as it aged before him.
Was it the morphine that convinced him it was alive?
Oh aren’t you just a know it all, sitting there judging me
with your liquid soul and your paper label.
So tell me, O Buddha, the meaning of life
and why you shouldn’t be tasted with fish.
The words on the label twisted into a mouth
a disdainful one, I might add
it seemed like that caterpillar that plagued Alice
yeah, that’s it and it said life has no meaning
and you can drink me with fried brain
for all I care.
Fried brain, very funny asshole
but I resent the way you look at me.
He picked up a corkscrew and jammed it into the bottle’s head
and twisted and twisted as it looked at him
plaintively and with curiosity.
He poured the wine onto the ground
and smashed the bottle against the wall.
He heard a heavy sigh and was overcome
with regret and grief not for the wine lost
but the chance forever forsaken
to redeem his lost mind.
The smell of the wine entered his nostrils
and he saw for a moment somebody’s heaven
misplaced and forgotten.
Car exhaust fumes, mildew, peppermint gum and nakedness.
Somebody yelled Hey Alice your pizza’s here
a faint sound of Joy Division and sick laughter
he could not move looking up through the telephone wires
a sky of black touched by moonlit clouds.
His words twisted into a mouth
NO REASON NO REASON.
Broken and empty at the kingdom’s gate.
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