Gravity and Jack Daniel’s

we, fearing Fortune’s fickle smile, did climb the mountain’s breast to drink our courage down.
There, where dawn’s pale breath unstitched the stars, I sought the slope alone,
hoping the maidens might descend and grant discourse
on matters grave — such as why their shoes and hair conspired in such strange discord.

But lo! mid-thought, I lost acquaintance with the earth.
The bond ‘twixt man and gravity was broke,
and down I fell — a hundred cubits deep into the pit of my own design.
Yet providence, mocking yet merciful, set me upon a lonely tree,
whose arms, though frail, received me as a sinner spared.

There hung I, bruised of knee and conscience both,
and mused upon my life — that poor concerto played in service of the Muse.
Call it not noble, this pursuit of sound!
I had sought art for art’s own sake, and found but vanity adorned.
For music and art, though oft they dance, do seldom wed;
and where I left my soul, I scarce remember.

Oft upon the stage I hear them prattle:
“He’s comely.”
“Would he but smile.”
“What monstrous hair is that?”
And I, poor fool, within myself reply,
“One day shall a princess understand.”
Yet even as I dream, a god — whose earthly name is Eddie Van Halen —
whispers, “Dream not, for dreams are but the opiate of the damned.”

Thus instructed, I hung upon my wooden cross
and pondered beauty —
She whom I loved was fair beyond my telling,
yet her knowing it made my silence wise.
Women perceive too soon how simple men really are.

And what, I thought, makes us more than beasts?
For like the simian tribe we mimic what we see,
aping the idols that dance within our glass boxes.
Were I their keeper, I would rule the monkeys thus:
I’d show them madness crowned, and bid them kneel.
I’d feed them poison, then punish thirst.
I’d have them brawl o’er the color of their fur,
and if my spirit grew ambitious, I’d found a faith:
“Renounce thy monkeying in this life, and lo —
in the next, a hundred golden harlots shall feed thee grapes.”
And when their faith did falter, I’d fake a voyage to the stars,
that they might once again believe.

The wise among them would name it imprinting,
this sorcery by which the greater ape commands the lesser.

Then from above — a voice, mortal and amused:
“Art thou well?”

“I know not,” quoth I, “for my bones yet argue the point.”
My knee was rent, my pride more grievously.

“Good thing thou art fair of face,” she called, “else thou’d be altogether witless.”

And so, limping down the lonely tree, I understood at last
why my god, the mighty Eddie, distilled this sacred drink.
Jack Daniel’s — philosopher’s stone of fools and kings alike!
For as art and music make uneasy marriage,
so too do whiskey and gravity quarrel unto death.
And thus I climb again, chastened, half-blind,
resolved to tread more softly —
for the world, like my bottle, is nearly empty,
and I, alas, am still falling.