Absinthe Makes the Heart go Find Her

Now is the summer of my disconent,
useless as an empty bottle.
I've hurled my disconsolate
body against walls to shatter
like glass in alleys after a frat-party;
Thrown shots like a berseker in pitched battle;
Hurtled buckshot and Bacardi
at my lover's ghosts.
This summer: an interminable Mardi
Gras desperate to drown itself in tourists,
frothing with a beer-inspired mock gladness--
As if happiness consists
of making more noise than sadness.
And still, these days without her pile
one on the other, bricks in the wall of absence.