"when i was young and drunk on good wine in a forest"

"when i was young and drunk on good wine in a forest"

inspired by music and memories by jake kilroy.

i was in northern california when i finally got "it,"

and "it" was several empty wine bottles

and a buzz that felt like lovemaking.

sleeping by a river that poured its heart out

into the foggy bays of california's top hat,

i drank the finest wine stirred by romantics

that never gave into the poetry of heartache.

the french still can't climb out of a bed

without remembering every bed they've ever abandoned

in the middle of the night, under moonlight,

jumping from one balcony to another,

praying for a god that cheats.

but the winemakers of northern california

put their lovers' whispers and secrets

in the grape stew and it tasted like angel's blood,

sweet and perfect, enough to knock me out

for years of dreams and eons of happiness.

what a time to be alive and drunk on wine,

i thought, as i went into the darkness of the woods

and asked the wild beyond for nothing,

because i had everything i ever wanted.

so i went back to my tent and read

until even the words on the page slurred,

and i listened to the bongo drums of the water

and the chimes of traffic in the distance

that glowed across the massive bridge

that brought me here to this gully.

by sunday morning,

my heart was even full of wine

and it was pulpy and lovely

and it carried yearning

and satisfied aching

in the same beats

that dripped the wine and blood

onto my bones, which stained

with beautiful purples and reds

and i would've given anything to see my insides

look like a carnival with horns and dancing,

but, instead, i watched the mist take the trees home

and give the moon a chance to catch its breath

and sigh until i heard nothing else

but the croaks of frogs and the hum of bugs.

i couldn't stop smiling.

god, i was sick with glory then.

oh, to be young and drunk on good wine

in a forest of overgrowth and mist again,

wondering where home will be,

if it could be so far away,

but beneath your feet somehow,

just a prayer of and for earth

waiting for you to dig your fingers into the dirt

and take wood for use other than fire and paper

and build something that won't ever go to waste.