Wednesday, June 3, 2009

If Stills Could Talk

Flesh of dewy wetback drying in the dusty sun,
native tourist wonder in fertile valley of privilege plain-
mashing madness hiding in the toil of broken picking still-
O I hate the wine, whose bitter bash of flush blooms
dreary on a palate of prickly tongue of acid announced.

Crystal goblets tink in heady talk of pompous plump,
extolling slithering gams in full-bodied elixir of bokay-
swirling harvest from sweated toil forgotten from one eyed
slurp in the mixing, swallowing in fragrance or a fine spit... 

Distill me this distaste, from within the contours of label
discreet and no making of a good year... water and ice
forgiving in the dilution of  taste extraneous, yet effusive...
whisking into the golden swirl of a hippocratic oath of hypocrisy,
I nurse in stillness and envy.



  1. Wow, now that's some some real fine poesy,
    a little prickly, a little rosy-
    perfect lines so dense and crisp:
    I'd read it out loud with a subtle lisp.

    Triple Bravos!

    English Nazi: mis-spelling line 2, penultimate word.

  2. Thank you Mr. Boyd... I'll raise you three cheers...