Poem-A-Day: Day 190

Charles and I

Charles spoke to me in a dull grumble,
and I could smell the booze on his breath
wafting out deathlike
in a puff of cigarette smoke.
Charles spoke to me,
and he told me about humanity,
what it means to be human
and our horrible, shitty condition.
Charles spit sometimes when he spoke to me,
and sometimes he was so drunk,
I could barely understand him,
but he somehow gave me the best advice
on the tail end
of the last vapors snuffed out of a wine bottle.
Charles spoke softly,
and his protests,
belied by his pockmarked skin
and unsightly appearance,
taught me to do something more
than I was used to.
Charles was the dead mentor,
reaching out and strangling me
with stumpy hands,
slapping me, and force-feeding me filth,
the human nature casually fucking itself
and then throwing up in the toilet afterwards.
Charles spoke to me
and gave me nightmares
that I committed to memory,
and honored him later with
in the bath of fine winery.