Slightly Drunk on a Tuesday Evening, A poem

Slightly Drunk on a Tuesday Evening
By: Kit Carson











Slightly drunk on a Tuesday evening. Drunk with feelings that bubble up like the foam of a champagne bottle just recently popped? Or rather yet from wine, white. The taste still fresh. Dim the lights. Turn on the music.

I'm plagued tonight. I'm on a tight-rope you see. Stuck between jail and go. Unable to collect my two hundred dollars and continue. I was caught by surprise; taken completely off guard.

Someone is standing in a Frankenstein laboratory somewhere. Lightening strikes off in the distance as a storm, ever growing, gets closer and closer. The crazed man stands by a switch, his hideous creation on the table waiting for the energy needed to live. Flash. The switch is pulled and the lights flicker as the energy of 1.21 gigawatts brings life to the lifeless.

I'm almost afraid to pen in it down on paper. To touch the pen to ink and then the pen to paper; scribe down the very words, terrify me in ways I haven't thought possible. I've been stuck on repeat for so long. The section of cassette tape worn and faded; bits of the movie gone completely as entropy claims the carbon copy of past memories. The fear stemming from the dreaded question of what if the past repeats itself? What if once again I'm left alone?

Green light, yellow light, red light. Patterns emerge in speech, a cryptic code of almost indecipherable difficulty presents in words that most likely mean nothing. It brings me back to an evening years had almost forgotten. I've been out with friends and I've had a wonderful time. My ride home and I talk about the ongoings of a group of half crazed teens. I feel good. Feet hit the pavement and I walk up the grassy front lawn of my childhood home. I pass underneath the two trees, ducking slightly as I always do. I make it into the house before the recollections of paranoid thoughts hit me like a blast of cold air. An "Oh, you're an idiot." meant playfully in jest becomes the downward spiral leading to an attack of paranoia I can't fathom.

The hope given in a beautiful fall sunrise. I see it all in your face, in the touch of your hand, in the smile that you give when you look in my eyes. My heart races and each time the light flashes and your name appears my eyes light up with a joy that I thought had been banished from the emotional pool that I swim in. My long unending run-on sentences can't be filled with enough description. I lack the formal knowledge of adjectives to express the twist.

Love is the greatest of all drugs and most addictive too. You hear in school specials that one taste of this or that and you'll be hooked for life and that's true. But the drugs they describe don't do addiction justice because love is the greatest and most addictive of all drugs. I tasted love once; felt it's warm embrace and wrapped myself inside it's incredible touch. No other drug do you look for so endlessly. No drug would you continue searching for after so many fruitless and fruitless expeditions. None but that of love, which embeds itself into your person. Love becomes who you are.

Hoping for the text that might not come. The only way to find out whether the cat exploded or whether it's alive is to open that door to tomorrow. End the flux state, open the door to the sleeping mind and rest a while. Wait for the answers to come on their own accord, as you sit slightly drunk on a Tuesday evening.