Let's tie our
shadows in a knot.

They writhe
on the bedroom wall.

Bedside lamp bathes
with light.

Sheets piled up
every night.

Let's tie our
shadows in a knot,

make them dance
on the bedroom wall.

Girl, womanhood's a boon.

Shine sunlight on your
orchid in full bloom.

Girl, we'll reap, for we've sown.

Your pink flower's slick with
early morning dew.

Mouth watering, do you salivate too?

Taste me, tasting the
spring sweetness of you.

Planted, that fertile soil in June.

"I don't recall that"
I say to her.

She may have mentioned it, sure,
But I can't really even remember what I had for breakfast, let alone something said two years ago...



"You don't listen,"
she tells me.
"You just let the words fall through you."

I smile, I agree.
I'm struggling with figuring out
what kind of reaction I should be having.
Should I be argumentative,
or empathetic?
What does she want me to say?
What does she want to hear?
I say nothing, just stand there and watch.

"It's like you're not even a real person,"
she mutters softly as she turns to walk away.
"I have no idea who you are, after all these years."

Before her hand touches the **** on my front door
she pauses, turns and looks me solemnly
in the eyes, her focus darting back and forth
between each of my irises.
I just look back at her, rather unflinchingly.

"You're a stranger Justin Wampler."

With that, she turns and leaves.

I crack a beer and ponder a bit.
Mostly not really thinking anything, just...
trying to look cool.
I peek over at the mirror on the wall
and think to myself ****,
contemplative's a good look for me.

Oh well.

The monkey leaned down,
whispered in my ear
"Don't forget to pick up more beer."

I nodded in agreement,
I nodded in rhythm
with the demons' song.

They whistled and
they smiled and
did the backstroke,
jauntily along,
through the river of whiskey
that I had tried
to drown them with.

A thousand-toothed yawn,
the monster finds it all too easy.

I don't even put up a fight,
I sit down at night
and forget.

I forgot.

Bouts.

It comes in fits
and tantrums.

Intermittent
bursts of
responsibility.

I'll **** the place up
for two months,
then in one day I'll
clean everything.

One time Mom got sick of me
not picking up my room.
I was eight.
She turned into a whirlwind
and tore everything off my walls.
Ripped everything off my shelves.
Upturned my garbage can
and my tackle box.
She dumped everything
into a big pile
in the middle of my room.

I cried and
in my first bout
of responsibility,
I cleaned it all up.

Just to start all over again.

When I'm done and
thoroughly drunk,
I always fill the bottle
back up with my ****.
That way,
when tomorrow graces me,
I'll be able to see
exactly what I spent my
hard earned
money on.

Also,
the bathroom is all the way over there
and I gotta ****
right now.

It's a win-win.