counting off fifths of bourbon,
each one i labeled as my last,
the rows of glass bottles, empty of amber
crowd my subconscious

and now, clinking from my passenger seat
at the bumps in the road
sings a tinkling melody of my defeat

i blame those nights,
[which are most nights]
that are drowned by a persistently resonating
lack of noises and voices
which urge me to stifle the drone with a triple shot on the rocks
hold.the.mixer.hold.the.water.&.no.last.call

so when i can manage to recall
how much lighter i am
on those rare mornings,
unburdened by the sloshing, sickened weight of the evening's burning fog,
a subsequent golden haze effectively numbs me
and the thrumming darkness fades into liquid amber