by Dan Hiland

Created on: April 15, 2010

Alcohol

I’m not supposed to hate,

But I hate you.

And you always get out of it

Because you are not a You

but an It:

A disembodied substance that is the very embodiment

of something they call “spirits,’

Yet you have no spirit-

Barely a substance, and only because you are liquid.

If someone were to leave your principal ingredient out in the air,

it would evaporate into the nothingness you elicit from others.

And we would all see that you have no heart,

And are only as big a monster

as one will allow you to become.

The chemical compound that causes the human spirits who take you in

To act not like themselves but be something less-

One of the few things that takes away when added.

For when you are inside of them

There is no ghost in the machine-

Only confusion

and abandon

and a carelessness

and loss of control that is welcomed

only by those who cannot find peace in their real estate

Unless you are holding their hands.

In your iron grip.

The traces you leave after the party are varied

but there nonetheless-

Sometimes it’s a crashed car and a mangled waste of bodies-

Other times it’s merely a forgetting of all that passed

while you were at the wheel.

If only we could see what you are up to when you do your business,

Maybe then we’d banish you forever to the medicine cabinet-

To clean and disinfect the outside

Instead of demeaning and polluting the inside

By getting as close to one’s soul as you can

Without breaking any natural laws.

You’ve killed millions,

And been suspected and accused

but seldom convicted, and never never excuted-

There’s too much money and power at stake.

So what about my parents,

who hid from me when they were full of you.

.

Then there’s my aunt,

Whose brains you pickled.

And in the end that half-sister of mine

Whose liver you blasted full of holes, though ever so slowly.

And the there are all those artists and musicians and priests-

Anyone, actually, who found in you theire solace,

But what was found in them in the end?

Not you, no,

For you had vapored away,

Leaving behind a heritage of sickness-

A legacy of despair-

A record of moving violations committed

as your chemical compound traveled within

what used to be a temple

But is now defiled.

The sad part is that with some abstinence

The remodeling could bring back that temple anytime.

The evidence has been there

ever since Adam’s children took that first swig:

The knowledge that we can’t handle you.

There are always a few who claim they are your master,

And can hold you anytime, anyplace-

If that is so, I would ask them to let go of you and walk away.

But instead of saying “That’s not a bad idea,”

I am told that I’m being judgmental

Or a stick in the mud

Or a teetotaler

Or a party pooper

Or even one of those damned mormons…

You’re a downer

A depressant.

An embalmer of the conscience.

And if I had my way

There’d be no Prohibition this time around,

But a law straight from the top:

“Thou shalt not drink it

Because we will not provide it for you to imbibe.

Be it known throughout the land that

Mr. Beam

Mr, Daniels

Mr. Beefeater and all the rest

Are hereby banished from existence.”

And now I descend from the soapbox

To go my way while you party

And keep my fellow man and woman in your thrall.

You are the unseen tiger sitting at the gate-

Ready to enter and tear apart

Yet asked to come back again

Once they feel better

Or worse.

I’m not supposed to hate,

But I hate you.

You are the compound that’ll

Come pound on all you touch.

So be my guest and go to hell

Where you’re welcome any time…

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