Counting

Are they counting? Maybe. But I know I am. How many times. Down the stairs and up again. Bottle in hand. Teeth to cap clenching to release what false medicines inside still promising to cure me. LIke a messiah upon a cross. Dying that I mgiht live. Or at least reach some kingdom called heaven where alcoholic poets are relieved of all their vices.

I don't believe in such things. God. Jesus. Heaven. But I understand the neccessity. Especially since.

Hope keeps us alive when we ourselves have no desire left to live.

The question is, should it?

Counting empty bottles til I lose track. Caps in the morning to tally. To tell me have I been good or have I been bad.

I used to save them. glue them together into sculpture. Pyramids and globes. Taking what I'd wasted the night before and in the morning finding something worthwhile in the remnants.

I used to do lots of things I don't anymore. Because the only reason beer tastes so good is that with every sip your life moves a little further out of focus.

And that's all you ever sought. Not to see yourself. Ever again.