I adore Dostoyevsky.

I also adore rye
and brandy,
bourbon, scotch, amaretto,
‘black’ wine, gin, limoncello
and,
on occasion,
Irish Cream—
though only in strong espresso.
I used to down several cups
of such
each
morning before slouching
my way to the Anthropology
course I took at the Southern college
taught by a Vonnegut imposter;
I’d be tipsy during the first half,
content until Calculus.

I adore French-pressed, freshly-ground Spanish coffee
soaked in kettle-blazed water
to blacken my tongue as it does me—
another shot I don’t require
given the amount of amphetamines
’fore fueling my synaptic fires.

I adore the pills—
O THE PILLS,
prescribed and filled,
divided, stilled
through my system
in
the past decade or so;
should have made me a madman—
and would have
were I not
a woman.

I adore Bukowski.
But I abhor femmes, small talk,
love, and absence of intellect in this country.