My Still

What the fuck else is there to write about?
It's got to be painful for me
to tell other people about it.
If it doesn't rip
me
apart to write about it,
it isn't worth
the paper upon which it's printed.

But be honest with yourself,
you, reader.
You're a poet, too,
at least you think you are.

You write words.
I'll bet you spend hours
carefully constructing
a vast mosaic of images
in hopes that someone will
stand back far enough to
see that you're pretty gosh-darned profound.

Sure, I spend the hours, too,
but my hours are spent in front of
my still, making moonshine.
Verbal moonshine:
perfectly clear, odorless
and tasteless
until it reaches down into your
guts and rips the fuckers out.
The best batch I ever brewed left me sick for three days.