Sunday, August 30, 2015

A Poem about a Book That Has yet to Be Written

There is bad blood
in the genealogy
of my Grandfather’s line
on my Mother’s side,
full of strange perversions
and sexual proclivities
that are not smiled upon
in polite society.
Things that make a normal
man cringe,
especially if that man happens to be me.
I have to face the fact
that such blood runs in my veins.
I’ve detoxified on celery and carrot juice
until the cows come home,
but that kind of shit runs deep,
and sewer sludge isn’t that
easy to flush clean.

There is toxic blood
in the genealogy
of my Grandfather’s line
on my Father’s side,
full of wine and liquor,
full of ego and ink
that spills on the page
with each drink down the drain.
The type of genes
that cause the liver
to fill up like a bloated whale,
and can lead to nausea
that takes the cake, and then
vomits it up on occasions
when the nights
go too long, running
into the mornings,
once a year or so.

All this crazy blood
swirls like a genetic soup
in my harsh DNA reality.
Which is fine by me,
because I’m more into
the idea of freewill anyway.
Besides, if I had to take my pick,
I’d rather be a drunk
than some lowlife pervert,
so I must have hit
the karmic jackpot this time
around the cycle.

Now pass that bottle, baby.



--Scott Thomas Outlar 

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