Pottery, Or My Search to Re-Learn What I Already Know, Which is That Sometimes, In Fact, I'm Pretty Fucking Awesome

Anyone who's been paying attention knows I've been having some real issues for the past few weeks, mostly because a dumb boy hurt my feelings. On the one hand, it was as much suckage as I could handle, but then my old cat started declining FAST even though I had given him a very stern talking-to about not dying until after Labor Day. Then there's of course my mom, who seems to be on the same path as the cat, and my big financial cleanup, and well, you get it. My life is pretty fucked right now. The cherry on the sundae would be a call from my doctor saying, "Ummm, we found a few abnormal cells we'd like to discuss." I figure after the shitstorms of May and June, that one would only be worth a shrug and an "oh, well."

Well, after writing and writing and venting and being just about as awful a person as possible on my private blog, I just got tired of thinking about what a stupid, dumb, ugly, shitty person I am. Hey, I said to myself, that's my FRIEND you're talking about. Knock it off. So after one final vicious purge, I'm done looking for the ways I suck and the ways he sucks. It ain't makin me feel any better, that's for fuckin' sure.
With that in mind, I pulled down the following poem from my refrigerator. It was written for me by a guy way back when, after we'd had many multi-hour late-night conversations, but had not yet met in person. The first time we met, he handed me the pages torn from a spiral notebook and I have kept them ever since. It's not the best poem in the world, but it's not the worst, either, and it takes a strange dogleg in the middle into Springsteen lyrics, but what I remember about it is that he incorporated so many things from our conversations into it. He was listening and paying close attention. That matters. I don't remember his name. It's the only time I have ever inspired a man to write me poetry.

Here it is:

To Be Read Under The Influence of Alcohol In An Irish Bar In The Company of Beautiful Women

To the bartender: Be sure
That when you mix my drink
The water is holy
And blessed by barmaid
Assassins trained by the
Vatican to cross their hearts
Before overpowering defenseless
Men

When you've lost your drinking
Contest with women who
Outdrank Thor
You'll stumble into the street
Asking for directions to
The nearest bowling alley
To volunteer as a spare
Pin on the slow day after
Christmas

You will have learned never
To bet against pool shark honeys
With a low angle of attack
And to take care with
Long haired vixens whose
Merest glance ensnares you
In a tangle of lusting probation

And you will know there is a
Woman who sings behind
Thick doors on cold nights
Who whispers in your ear
That nape is a word best
Said slowly

One brush of the lips on
Her neck grants eternal life
Which will be spent
Massaging her feet and
Anointing the small of her
Back with cardamom oil
And devastating kisses

She's a traffic jam, a pile-up
No simple misdemeanor
Her kisses on the lam break
You down, thankful that to
Others she's meaner

So be warned men who
Fear dying and going blind
She'll stop your breath
During the total eclipse of the sun

And when the sun shines at
48 SxSW she dances to
The skiffle of Japanese gongs and
Jewish trombones singing
Songs she's never heard
From the
Rooftops of Hell's Kitchen
Straight to the other side
Of the Hudson

Boys in warehouses will kneel
And pray that her call is
To them for they are true
And not art dealer junkies
With too much cash and no
Command of her mother tongue

She knows then that you are
Mad and weak where
Others are strong and that
She can follow the footprints
Of men or walk with you
Barefoot in song.