Saturday 10/21/2006 11:00:00 PM

I was having a bowl of lasagna. I put whatever I can into bowls. I need the high sides to keep in the frenzy. The mania of self-preservation that attaches itself to every meal. The part of myself I hate the most. The one who doesn't just live, but actually goes so far as to justify wanting to. With popcorn bullshit about kids and dogs and men in bars that won't just try you on for the night.

There was coffee. There always is. Pour. Drink. Pour. Piss. While the walls paint our shadows soft. In curdled bundles much smaller than we think we are. And he measures. While I sip. He fixes while I wonder. How much damage it takes to get him to start.

Words ooze like pus. Every finger an open sore. I have to stop him as he begins his repairs.

There's nothing wrong here.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.