The Tocai Fruiliano Is At 54 Degrees

B.D. Fischer

I have a number of discrete personality disorders.
The first is Chattanooga Tennessee
a wonderful place to cheat on your wife
where the women call from the street
“Today is my birthday;
can’t somebody give me a nice birthday?”
I hear her in my bathroom,
where I read about the election in Belarus.

This is what happens when you can’t hit a curveball:
He adjusts himself in public
clutching a prescription for atenolol
and clozapine. Mine is for nefazodone,
for my wife on my birthday.

I was discussing or giving orders
to someone named Carl.
There may have been a full moon last night,
or generosity, or an EAP.
My hair looks best before bed and
all she demands
of me is my time

and a neverous system reaction.
I never fail
to deliver.
The blanket covers her ear,
the breathing barely shallow.
A tuft of hair, the curtains drawn.
The bottle at the bedside.

No, I mean yes, there are things you can’t control
but you still have to wear a seatbelt,
a condom, a safety harness
on the face of Foster Falls.
Wash your hands both to cook
and to eat. Just to be safe.

The window above the sink
overlooks my neighbor’s yard
but not my own. The purple blossoms
are gone
a month into spring.

Look down and stir and reach for a glass
as the pan sauce reaches a critical mass.

How do you tell if the whiskey is working?
The Altered States of Chimerica.
The mystical thoughts overtake you.
Happiness: the deus ex nihilo.
The horse moves backward
while you face forward

but the Tocai is cold enough.
The food is on the table.
She hands me a present
and stifles a yawn
and gives me a kiss.
The black man at the pharmacy.