brother-told-me

My brother told me once

by tlhopkinson
3rd place Why I Can’t Write a Poem Contest

 

“If you want to be good at something when you’re drunk, learn how to do it when you’re drunk.” This he says as he explains the appeal of combining beer and golf. I nod my head, thinking maybe I would be as passionate and patient a poet as my brother is at golf if I had only waited to write my first lines and stanzas alongside an emptied flask, stumbling feet, and spinning head. To my misfortune, I first wrote poetry with the sober hand of a child—sober, yet worry-free, relaxed, and curious. This same inspiration now only comes to my ragged, grown hands once I’ve freed my mind and filled my gullet with word inducing wine. Trying to fool my fingers into typing without my liquid muse causes nothing but a blinking cursor and treacherous boredom. Pouring into myself and out of myself in the midst of selfish inebriation turns me into Dickinson—pale and mysterious, until I read my ramblings over a cup of hangover the next morning and see Bukowski—old and dirty, looking back at me from the page. I want to glide in white, but instead, I’m swinging for a hole in one.

 

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