poem for chris

what a swell little glass...

wine tastes best from a jelly jar 

or a little glass like this 

made for bourbon

the glass needs to be thick.

heavy.

small.

i like to refill it 10 times before the bottle is empty

that way i feel like i get my ten dollars worth 

of italian red

and how does one find a glass so holy

in a house like this?

where the only dishes lay piled high in the sink

covered in pig fat

and old moldy vegan soup

there was a fork

that lived a life of solitude in my housemates room

possibly for months

and when another mate rescued it

cleansed it

and put it to work

he realized that the smell of grass-

months worth

had burrowed it's way into the metal...

truly astounding. astonishing. that his caesar salad

smelled of dope.

and somehow

amidst the fog

the clouds

the rain

the storm

the war

and the chaos

i found this little clean glass

a gift from dionysus

a token of appreciation 

for my devotion to the grape

now, in awe

my loyal hand holds a martyr

a saint

who's sole purpose

in this dreary house

among the plastic cups 

and cracked coffee mugs

is to fill my head

and my guts

with the nectar of the gods

thick.

heavy.

small.

i could place it in a sock

swing it three mighty times

above my head 

and coldcock an elephant...

what a swell little glass...