where ever it goes

I was reading some Alice Walker tonight ('The Old Artist') and she mentions that Alcoholism in Mr. Sweet's (a blues guitar player) case,  was a "slow method of suicide".  And I thought to myself, here is someone who thinks like me.  Unfortunately, drinking oneself to death is not a very graceful way to go.  I had about four ounces of Makers Mark the other night in honor of my mother's birthday, and was given the drunk test before I left the party (passed with flying colors).  I guess I have a genetic predisposition for booze.  I woke up the next morning feeling just a little groggy.  The funeral service for my lost brain cells will be held on Tuesday.
Alice ends her essay with a story about how a girl friend of hers from college sent in a piece to Langston Hughes who "loved it immediately".   He was another Mr. Sweet: a survivor.  I guess I am a survivor too.  My sister thinks I should sent some of my poetry in to Sharon Olds (a big influence), even though I know my brain droppings couldn't hold a candle to Robert Frost (he is so wise).  I am learning though and as long as can still pull air into these blackened lungs, I will keep trying.