Aristotle's Drinking Party

He sips
the amber liquid,
like fool's gold
amidst the glass and ash,
and the meandering trails
of night's yearning love
for a connection
caught within an escape.
He sits
in contemplation
of his nothingness,
and like the quivering
fingers of smoke
that surround him,
he dissipates into
the stale air
like the afterimage
of a dream.
He is bastard son
to the green hills of Ireland,
and the dark moss
of forgetting
clings thickly to his veins.
He has
the reasoning of Socrates
but the faith of Democritus,
constantly navigating
the hot iron coils
of his questioning spirit.
He is long lost child
to the deep pains of Scotland
but the conquered blood
of the Native
clots like crimson molasses
in his American heart.
He is
the Coyote,
the wise fool,
the wizard clown.
His art
is that of forgetting
what he forces
others to remember,
painting pictures
of innocence
on guilty canvases
and empty walls.
He is
Aristotle's Drinking Party,
and he is forever
defining the Laws of his Nature,
and calculating the
gravitational pull
of his sinking
lonesome soul.