Devil’s Wine

Pop the cork for Adam and Eve and the applesauce and the snake …

Where does all the wine go?
down to the herniated breath of the sea
down the throat of a drunk that tastes like mayonnaise
down the hillsides of dreams that are forgotten as nouns
down the brim of Bogart’s fedora
down the nose of a pointy eared gent
that’s where all the wine goes

Where does it all come from?
from the headaches of stigmatic saints
from the stuffed pots of lucky leprechauns
from the headquarters of empty eyes
from the of of the of of the of
from the antique clear-glass medicine bottles
from the tiny hearts of squirming nightcrawlers
that’s where

When does the wine appear?
on days as cloudy as smoke rings from Babe Ruth’s cigar
on nights you dream of climbing a ladder to the stars
when the only icebergs left are created by wild-eyed inventors
when mosquitoes suck and pass
the blood of pestilence
when scaredy-cat clowns break through
the McClouds of resignation

so

Pop the cork for the macaques and the butterflies and the baobab trees
Pop the cork for Adam and Eve and the applesauce and the snake

because

I can’t walk the straight line of the devil, and
I can’t search the hours for his lost loot, and
I can’t walk his fine line to distinction, and
I sure as hell
won’t slight you
for being
out of his wine

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