Alcohol and the Creative Process

Sometimes when I turn my back,
I think Edgar sneaks down from the bookshelf
and steals sips from my wine glass,
replacing it on the table half empty,
careful never to leave even a fingerprint on its bell-
like curves; obviously hiding this crime right here in plain view.
And that’s just the beginning:

While I’m looking for him around the couch,
Sylvia turns the oven back on
after I’m sure I clicked the knob to off.
An invisible Ginsberg screams obscenities in my ear,
and I swear I can’t get any peace in this damned place!
So, retrieving the keys from the not-so-Fort-Knox-like bowl on the fridge,
I head for the bar so I can do some serious thinking.

Waking up the next morning
while someone I’m pretty sure I’ve never met is still looking for a blouse,
bits of her life strewn across the floor in clumps
intermingling uncomfortably with my own,
I see my pages are as empty as the smattered bottles
stretching out everywhere from the kitchen counter
and all I have today for my night’s work is a headache.
-2007