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.