Tuesday 3/25/2008 12:44:00 AM

Sharp candy canes. That's what happens when you suck on sweet things. They hurt you. Or will. Eventually. Awkward phrases pool in her throat as she attempt to speak. Often forgetting to actually say the words. Conversations. Like dirty diapers needing to be changed. Used condoms in the grim afterwards of barely strangers.

Tomorrow comes in spasms. Epileptic fits of life rush into crowded brain stems. Bent antennae searching for transmissions long since lost. Even minor abortions leave their scars. Dead zones where the fetuses languish in a place between ourselves and them. Like we all do.

Every day.

Without ever knowing for sure what's gone.

Sad clowns have the advantage. Painted as they are. Three legged dogs outrun us. As we chase our tails.

Recovery is the old self and yet, the old self is what brought us here. I go back to her every night. She just never lets me stay there.

I've taught the monkey to dance. It's the right song we wait for.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.