I'm wary of those
who need booze
to speak what's
on their mind. . .or,
perhaps it's what's
in their heart that
requires alcohol
to reach voice.

People who are
bright, kind, sane
and capable when
sober yet dim, nasty,
crazed and furrowed
with hate when booze
unbinds heart of its
simmering venom.

People who see their
anger as proof that
they're right and any
who launch them are
at fault for igniting
rage that permits
no dialogue or even
words in edgewise.

Spittle sprays from
lips gaped by gripes
long seething, or so
it seems, till now as
a vesuvian moment 
lifts outer brows and
pops eyes etched
with bloody zigzags.

Which, I wonder,
is the real them?
Which is façade and
which their essence?
Are they coequal or
does one dictate?
Have I a choice or
must I accept both?

No answers are
forthcoming, so
I trust neither on
discovering that
he or she needs
booze to enable
heart's poison
to reach mouth.

It's harsh to reject
Jekyll because he's
no less Hyde, but
I have neither pity
nor patience for
habitual drunks.
Wish I knew them
less well than I do.

*     *     *
Angry face
Drunk face
Furious face