THE EMPTY GLASS

Copy Right 2010 Gordon Kuhn





From death I summoned mortal self and painful woke


from darkness I mental stumbled, staggered, crawled


while blurred vision within a thought that spoke


to none while no sound passed from lips came forth or scrawled


its simple presence, message, all upon the empty, silent, motionless, nonexistent wind


while with blurred sight of that I thought once, read, felt was or had been friend


had once been full but now an empty, stained, drying glass set before me then


an empty glass where once I thought that truth had run but neither truth or sin


were settled then within a tilted landscape revealed the bottle thought surely left full


but empty stands the space within glass walls while hungry lips would desperate seek to pull


one drop, one taste, to wet a dry aching parched throat, a breath to calm my throbbing soul


my brain afire as though within it lay beneath a blazing stack of glowing coal


upon there rests a frying pan which sizzles, dark red glows without a drop of oil


to soften, calm or aid the cooking toil


instead a crimson surface where words like drops of water fell


to dance across the surface in dying screaming voices tell


“Hey,” the distant voice did break the silent sound and say


“we’ve closed and need you now to up and pay


and sleep not here you cannot stay.”


Oh God, what hell is this where I now exist


of lights turned brightly on and noises which won’t resist


but in gladness seem to persist in the desire to torture this drunken piece of flesh and bone


and each muttered empty word strikes like a heavy stone


strikes and shatters stone on stone to gravel scatters shards like glass cut the flesh


of that which sober hours before now lies in tatters held by simple mesh


of skull bone which in deep despair if I could but shatter upon the wall


while coughing empty my stomach up upon the floor in the hall


that ought to piss the bastards off that drag me from this corner table cell


and roughly deposit me upon the curb wet with rain and in anger tell


me to not come back again unless my pocket book is full then would happy sell


me life in glass and bottle and my own table against the wall could sit


as once before when money graced my pockets and could laugh and sing a bit


but now I lay in a tight knit ball, in pain near the filling draining gutter


and listen to the rain splash and careless stutter


while my clothes grow wet and cold


and I realize that for such place as this I’ve only told


the story of what my cost was for the drink my life, my job, my health I sold.






Copy Right 2010 Gordon Kuhn