A bad, worming feeling in your belly
because
you've had nothing to eat today,
and
you hopped in your car,
giddy as a bird,
and rolled over there.

There being the magic store;
the store with it's keychains of glory,
bottles of distilled religion,
and a whole lot of prayer
that your debit card sings.

Tomorrow means work
and the evil dollar that drags Jamaican children across
intersections
as they scream at the Americans in taxis.

It seems we all need a break.
We all need a chance to forget
and say we're not culpable
for anything.

This is the magic that'll save you from your whiny conscience.

Sometimes,
you have slow nights,
and hate yourself
for being so lazy.

Other times,
it's an unleashing ****:
a riled-up badger
in your heart;
a\frigate on the best seas;
so much hope,
and the love of your life
hasn't ****** her boyfriend,
only you;
and it really comes out of you,
unspooling on the screen.

It's so much magic,
that your heart greases over with it; and all the little things
bellow.

You are too drunk, now.

But the ulcer juices;
and you know it's finally true.

Since you called,
I've been writing,
here and there,
truthfully,
skinning the night,
searching for meat.

I've peeled back
the clouds: crimson,
the sky: split,
the stars: lit like the mossed edges of a scab,
the cosmos: a ****.

I'm getting weary,
all of this beneath me,
the earth becoming
a speck of dust:
absurd.

The kind of hurt you like to dole:
still there.

Can't I be an astronaut in peace?

Do you like the flattening of me,
into a pancake
like the night:
hammered and nailed
across the hemisphere?

I am the gravity-crushed,
the soul-sored, the black-hole ripped.

Opened and steaming,
I'm under the sky.

The emergency room of the brinking night drugs
and
a story of gleaming scars is my heart.

The liquor doesn't bite anymore,
it comes over me,
in a flowering,
a thunder-wave.

I have dreams of killing him,
with a chainsaw and a rose,
the rose for you
to place
over the tendrils of his separated neck.

Or smashing his face
into a stone lion's mouth,
then forcing him,
inch by wriggling inch
into a granite maw,
trapped forever
behind the vicious wardens
of stone canines and cement incisors.

I usually dream drunk,
too wild in myself,
to roam the day sober.

So, work is drunk;
eating is drunk;
breathing is drunk;

Orange juice spiked,
ready to go.

Meatloaf dinner; date with milk, *****, and sweating
at five.

Can't you see the carnage?

The flotsam;
The raft of bodies
of stupid, pale men
who give out their positions
to hateful women.

Travelling down a broken, dark highway,
delight bending.

Cops pulsing behind us,
in the rearview,
creamed by streetlamps;
the cars
whittle to bad stars behind us.

No hot humans allowed on the road
tonight,
and it's foggy in the dashboard,
the dictum of the reepers.

You are a ******* drunk,
you *******,
*******,
*******
horrible person,
you.

God,
when the time comes
it will be like
redemption.

The tipping will tip over,
and the balancing
will balance out.

Go **** yourself in a corner,
go drown.

Fine. I will take all of this with me,
into a torrent,
I will consume and consume,
distill and distill,
spew and spew,
me,
that *******,
*******,
*******,
drunk.