When I Drink
When I drink
the $300 scotch
with Roshi
it quenches every thirst
A song comes to my lips
a woman lies down with me
and every desire
invites me to curl up naked
in its dripping jaws
No more, I cry, no more
but Roshi fills my glass again
and new passions consume me
new appetites
For instance
I fall into a tulip
(and never hit the bottom)
or I hurtle through the night
in sweaty sexual union
with someone about twice the size
of the Big Dipper
When I eat meat with Roshi
the four-legged animals
don’t cry any more
and the two-legged animals
don’t try to fly away
and the exhausted salmon
come home to my hand
and Roshi’s wolf
biting at its broken chain
creates a sensation
in the cabin
by making friends with everyone
When I chow down with Roshi
and the Ballantine flows
and the pine trees inch into my bosom
the great boring grey shoulders
of Mt. Baldy
creep into my heart
and they all get fed
with the delicious fat
and the white cheese popcorn
or whatever it is
they’ve wanted all these years.
—Leonard Cohen, from Book of Longing
