French 75
Crush 200 million shells into a champagne flute. Twist 200 million lemon rinds, using only French carbon steel, rocking back & forth. Imagine even bubbles bust a cap in the ceiling. Imagine my brain stuck spinning like a pair of rims at a traffic light. Effervescence mixed with cognac, spinning serotonin. Of course you can lower me to the floor with two hands gripping my waist. Say Clicquot 10 times quick. Gaba receptors swinging from the ledges of a mind, all shot down. Home is circling through a sky of old habits. Saying—I’m on my way when I haven’t even left. All day long, I’m on a late-night walk, letting my legs take me whichever way they want, witnessing the ones who came before me resting on the wings of things. On Jets, on JET, on the word Yahtzee, on moths, moth balls, on lightning bugs, on strawberry candies, front porches, plastic fold-out chairs, on biscuits, my daddy’s bald head, broken bottles. I’m afraid to end up at the edge of an empty glass. Afraid of what lingers in a taste bud, in a neuron, in my nerve cells.
