A Poem about a Book That Has yet to Be Written

There is bad blood

in the genealogy

of my Grandfather’s line

on my Mother’s side,

full of strange perversions

and sexual proclivities

that are not smiled upon

in polite society.

Things that make a normal

man cringe,

especially if that man happens to be me.

I have to face the fact

that such blood runs in my veins.

I’ve detoxified on celery and carrot juice

until the cows come home,

but that kind of shit runs deep,

and sewer sludge isn’t that

easy to flush clean.

There is toxic blood

in the genealogy

of my Grandfather’s line

on my Father’s side,

full of wine and liquor,

full of ego and ink

that spills on the page

with each drink down the drain.

The type of genes

that cause the liver

to fill up like a bloated whale,

and can lead to nausea

that takes the cake, and then

vomits it up on occasions

when the nights

go too long, running

into the mornings,

once a year or so.

All this crazy blood

swirls like a genetic soup

in my harsh DNA reality.

Which is fine by me,

because I’m more into

the idea of freewill anyway.

Besides, if I had to take my pick,

I’d rather be a drunk

than some lowlife pervert,

so I must have hit

the karmic jackpot this time

around the cycle.

Now pass that bottle, baby.

--Scott Thomas Outlar