Finding the Fist

I'm woken up. By ladders. And sirens. Frenzied in a fraudulent euphoria. I'm woken up. By missing tiles. By dirty guns. By bullets lodged in heads.

I'm sober. Promiscoulsly so. Teasing the coffins that wait on my eulogy. Reasoning with my pain. I'm drunk. A prude alcoholic. Flirting with obession. But never letting it part my legs.

In every word. In every keystroke. The bold face of underwear removed. Lazy thunderstorms rumble on our decisions. IN the twist of vision that makes my eyes fit again. So I can see. from this far away what I'd only seen up close before.

The Callous. In brown words. Sucking up all the feeling. Stealing the music in a stiff gown.

Where nothing echoed.

A fists laid open. A laugh of concrete. Muttering jokes. As it wonders how to hold.

This fist everywhere. This fist lost in everything I do.