Shaken and Stirred

Frank O’Hara said after the first glass of vodka, you can
accept just about anything of life, even your own mysteriousness,
but what if you can’t accept the Vodka? My grandparents didn’t
sail from Prussia for me to form a feather-stomach, but I didn’t design
my innards, slow-roasted swine on the birch pole, it’s glazed skin falling off
as it tenderizes. This happens as I age more and more. Mysteriousness is
scientists thinking my intestines glow, twinkling Christmas lights on twine,
but twinkling is from all the black holes along the way, twigs falling from
careful beaks of birds building a nest nestled the branches of my
ribcage. My own mysteriousness can be summed up: blue grass in Indiana,
crab grass in the feet—the classic one-two jab to the jaws of every goose-
necked bottle that’s passed through ancestral hands, but at least I can lay
in the soft blues of you, Indiana. I can’t even stand on my own two feet,
and sure as hell, we know Vodka never let anyone stand on theirs
without willowing in the wind, long confetti-colored streamers, Vodka-bodies:
the only ones who aren’t reaching for spindled clouds, they form like
gemstones in brown streams. When we were climbing up Chimney rock,
I didn’t drink until we reached the peak, then I drank it all in. The river,
so insignificant, such a sparkling small intestine track hiding between cancers
of green puffs, exposed aging of sediments and calcium snuck between cracks
in the mountain’s heart. Of course it cannot love forever, the trees won’t
allow too much exposure. After all, we can’t see our bones, so I won’t be
accepting how mountains gain all the mysterious naked fame.

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