You forget how lonely it is.
You forget that you’re only any good
when it’s all bad around you.
You forget about the bitterness
and the anger
pitted in your stomach like a weight.
The drink helps best.
The ****** try.
The door swings open and shut
and it looks like it is nice and
it looks like it is fine and
you forget for a moment how lonely it is.

Then all the sudden, like a car crash
or a bullet wound, all of the sudden
you feel it, and it all comes down
and hits you in the gut.
It hits you in the gut and
it hits you in the heart
and sometimes you feel it and
it hits you in the throat.

The drink helps best.
It is cool and burns you as you try
to forget again.
The women try.
They are cool and never more beautiful
then when you try to forget again.

In the end, it is there,
all wrenched up in your gut.
The sweet, terrible, unending
emptiness of
being alive.