I don’t drive
Terrie Relf

I don’t drive

a car

but tonight

after reading poetry

about drinking and driving

drinking and fucking

drinking and writing

I thought I’d take a sip or two of brandy

you know the bottle

up on the top shelf

the one reserved for truffles,

tira misu,

and the occasional visitor

it burns my throat

and I can’t read any better

I don’t drive

and there’s no one to fuck

so I write

and hope that some of these words make sense

that they don’t veer off the road

swerve around the corner too fast

90 in a 35mph zone

ok, ok, so the great poets drank

Bukowski for one

Ginsberg loved his sake

or maybe it was that cute video guy that always walked with him down the halls

anyway

writers drink

some of them

the others abstain

are in AA or

prefer the bean to the sauce

this is really weird, this poem

pouring out with a scream

without spilling too much

ok, ok, so I’ll get an old rag

mop it up a bit

careful not to smudge the words

hey--I think I like this drinking and writing

it reminds me of my Naropa days

parties

sake

Buddhist sex

with Buddhist men

straight

gay

bi

whatever

men

I haven’t been fucked for a long time

no one’s made love to me, either

I think I’d prefer that to fucking

I fantasize about alien sex parlors

androids programmed to thrill me

but don’t tell anyone

they think I’m already weird

But seriously

alien sex

think about it

I wrote a story about it once

ok, ok, lots of stories about it

and I wonder if those alien dudes have stamina

I mean can they go all night

into the morning?

Do they bite?

Do they ooze?

Are they slippery?

Or is it all in the mind

like this poem poured out on the page

slick

slightly bitter

but real?