sour liquor permeates the vestibule

never given my
confession to a
man of the cloth
unless the cloth
was a bar rag
because i have
poured myself out
to a few bartenders
throughout my time
an exchange of
libations to numb
with problems to
mull over in the
amber depths of
a series of shots
where the answers
never change but
the mindset does

writing messages
to stuff in the empty
bottles floating
far out to sea
seeking a desert island
to litter the beach
with the ramblings
of a foolosopher
drowning in words
yet never quite able
to speak them
a concentration
in constipation
where emotional release
is an inebriated dream
taking the anonymity
from the disease
shuffling from
stool to stool
knowing the answers
but asking anyway

seeking solace in
spirited solutions
that are nothing more
than rings worn into
the heavy lacquer
where neon doesn’t
quite reflect the
truths so carelessly
spilled in splashes
of snake oil soliloquies
as long as the money
is there the patient
saintly drinkslinger
will nod politely
in the fumes of
heartworn declarations
in slurred confessions
convincing myself
the road to heaven
is laid with the
false convictions of
an atheist in prayer

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