Dionysus sits under the neon sign flashing
O-P-E-N in a multicolored rainbow

the night smells like Busch or Miller
it’s cheap and too salty but it keeps flowing

like a pee colored river down his throat
until his eyes are bulging from their sockets

some smeared lipstick daydream with her face
pressed against her palm, thoughtful, almost pensive

he looks at her and admires the sharp peaks
of her shoulders like the mountains from his childhood

born from his daddy’s thigh in the shadow of Black Mountain
raised by nymphs in the arms of junipers

watching giant cranes slowly swim across the sky
the sweet scent of honeysuckle and dogwood blossoms

a thousand miles away from the honky-tonk
from Waylon, Willie, and the boys

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