in the cupboard sits my bottle
like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers.
I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony,
sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere,
the phone rings gamboling its sound
against the odds of the crooked sea;
I drink deeply and evenly now,
I drink to paradise
and the lie of love.
Charles Bukowski, “Soirée”
It’s Saturday night. Have a beer. Maybe two. But not as many as Mr. Bukowski, unless you can write like him.