For Josh
You may find,
having sought epiphany
in boozy oblivion,
meditation via intoxication,
once again,
that this no longer passes muster.
In lieu of lost youth,
as compensation,
a totem for your contemplation:
celery garnishing culinary wares
like antennae peacocking the alchemy
of Bloody Mary.
Components include classic Tabasco or
your chosen purgative incendiary,
propriety having long slipped past
at about quarter-to-beer-thirteen,
granting time to improvise along
branches of deviating ingredients.
Juice your sour fruits.
Seek last night’s lost salt.
Measure cleansing vodka equating
one-eighth of inflicting standard drinks.
How do you fuse your dog hair?
Top with modest vegetable default,
this solid addition to liquid salad,
ten-percent iceberg that stirs,
pierces tiers,
brings together whatever
the fuck been wrought.
And you can chew it.
Bite the bait meditative,
punctuate,
take plenty of breaks
while you sip yourself halfway to Hell,
which is where you left your keys.
Discard this leafless proposition,
if you please,
but the offer stands above
your homeopathic microdose
of previous overkill:
cleanse palate,
make all this novel
once again.