The more I drink, the more I love my family.
Until we drink too much, then we fight and cry.
That’s not a plea for understanding or absolution,
it’s a question of what makes those you love
more beautiful, or unbearable, if only for a moment?

Drunkenness creates the aura of personal
glitter attraction. It shows in the faces of certain
politicians, you know the ones, oily hypocrites
who somehow seduce so many admirers
it must be alcohol, or worse, that does that.

What’s worse than alcohol? Maybe guns and alcohol.
How about fear? Beliefs that act like blinders on a horse
determining only one way to go? Beliefs get you high; there’s
no belief like you’re better than those who don’t believe like you
 to make you love those who believe like you that much more.

It could be extraordinary popular delusions and
madness of crowds, or escaping the fifth slaughterhouse
that gives that edge, that sought after moment
when we feel that much better, more in love,
than how we felt when we woke up this morning.

Philosophically, that’s the question, what’s real
and what’s imagined? What do we want,
who do we believe? Is it you I see, or you
I want to deceive? Is it what’s happening to you,
or what’s happening to me?

All of which leads to the most important question,
is it time for another drink? So much can be answered
by a chance to drown easily forgotten sorrows,
any harbored regrets or insults that might
tear an ordinary family apart.