Spitting at the Stars

— Jerry Dyer

For Jack Kerouac (and the Jack in all of us)

The sky has been stepping down all day,
and the leaves ping like a ticking clock—

I have been drinking holes in the future.

If the soul works in one-eyed fixity,
with one hand you can burn up tomorrow,
and the past can be drowned
like a puppy in a sack.

The present is the hard part.

Time—I know this from Einstein—
is the breathing of space,
so what is there to do, but drink
wine spodiodi, and spit at the stars?

Maybe now can only be buried
if I find the right bar stool,
learn the proper sequence of gestures
to make over the glass, practice
the platitudes to repeat, endlessly,
until my tongue is not my own.

So then one day, I will simply vanish
from the world. My mouth will be the last thing
to fade away, holding as it will
that final heartbreaking taste of God.

One thought on “Spitting at the Stars

  1. Another fine drinking poem. The loss of self, regretful but powerless, with even a sense of spite just shy of inevitability. So many contradictions in a kind of woeful harmony. And beauty too. You always find room for that.

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