Dreamtime craving for alcohol when you’re not a drunk means Bacchus is having a crisis of consciousness tossing the nymphs and turning the maenads out of his bed
thump thump thump
they hit the floor and
tap tap tap
he comes to your window
because you have your own bed and won’t sleep with him in it gravity isn’t a threat then and he has the whole carpet to himself
because he enjoys thrusting his head under your box spring and tying your mismatched and long- forgotten shoelaces together.
Also, he thinks you’re fun to drink with mostly because you don’t much, don’t have the stuff for proper cocktails, and while you’re craving his liquor he’s craving the sexy way you pour it into a diet root beer shrug and drink it all down.
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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M. N. Ashley 