Monday, March 28, 2011

I've come to a point in my life as a sobronic

Look, I'm rooting around in the cellar of sober with my nose to the floor, some incarnation between a hog searching for truffles and a impenetrable apparition that can't seem to float up through the  boards fast enough to just find the living room already and take a seat for tea time.  My hands would dirty the linen if I did, I'm sure.

The smell down here is of age.  Of must; and there's earth too.  That dirt in that corner there, see, with a purple hue, and the walls are made of field stones that are rough enough for me--if I clamp my eyes down hard and swallow while I do it--to feel the way they broke through hard calloused hands to cause blood, and where, if you'll allow, a harder looking wife used to smoke her cigarettes--there, if you look, the mild depression on third stair, and here, on the rafter, the place where her third child stood up too fast only to collapse suddenly after his head hit the exposed nail.   Just a matter of looking around a bit, having that memory jab ya in the back a few times, before you realize that no matter how hard you hammered that nail flat, it will never go away.   Anyway, back to the grind.  I think there was a prohibition bootlegger tunnel down here somewhere that led to the brewery down near the river.  That'd be neat, if we could find it.

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