We rarely go drunk, or perhaps that is I, when I told Marc that all people are nearly up on exits
and barely exists now is feeling – he started swinging a running joke between the two of us
facing the planetesimal – lights their strobes of secret I am on my 7th beer and still nothing
when being listened to by frantic fret of fear because indulgence is key to demise
when it is said to pull apart but didn’t, I halved the 7th beer and felt my gut cloy itself with
the muck of fat from pork rind and stale chicken
I deem myself incompetent in the slug, gild of attendance: freckled wall with dotted red,
linoleum plastered, defaced somewhat, Marc moves to Hannah and I further
the dark with my groping hands – I do not smoke inside my car.
Ortigas is unusually dull, minutes trickle slow like *** or un-***,
whichever it may, I quickly said as I stole the mic from his hand the words I imagine
to become filled with the purpose of frayed upon exactitudes.
He always brings his knife with him and I always ask him even if I knew
that it’s somewhere in his acid-washed jeans – I have always been fascinated
by the lives made better or worse by knives. I remember Gabriel and I talking
about Holden Caufield when all we ever wanted was to fall
immensely in love with girls we chase around in sophomore year, Gabriel
I do not know where you are and listening to Radiohead now reminds me of
something strange with unwilling potential; perennial silence permeates
Ortigas and somewhere a couple is hot and *******
whereas I, asleep on my 9th beer, probably my last,
willing to give up for a laugh or some sense of place
while I hear them all
laughing in front of my parked car, poking fun at something
I can barely identify.
