To Have A Drink All By Myself In Paris Poem by gregory collins

What if i want to be the fingers of Jim Morrison
over a glass of bourbon. To travel like thoughts

that swim in the sea while thinking of walking
on land all the while dreaming of flying through

the air. Maybe what the soul is, the wind blows
away when they drown us at birth. When i am

greeting the sunrise because she takes care
of the lobby after the stars. The sky always

mirrored on the water of my paper vase eyes.
Because the sunrise suffers from severe insomnia,

maybe jet lag is when i looked out the car
window. Saying seriously, i think when my house

phone rings, loneliness wanders aimlessly around:
An avalanche playing a grand piano, and what courage

it took to have a drink all by myself in Paris. Who also
has a suppertime of waterdrops from their eyes, and the slowly

beaten wings, as if many angels were crying in unison. As if
i truly know nothing about all the volunteer fire-fighters,

that scramble down destroyed realities to destroy reality.
They let my heart be daubed like a volcano plucked from

a grass flower. And it is the hug i scent the wind with, it shows me
the unending flow of the greatest beauty. The arrival of being

locked inside a search for her; Helen's jaundiced unpolluted eyes.
Another soul that gets more entangled, hiding carefree up in the skies.