“These days I’m full of alcohol’s remnant,
not the burn after gulp
or the oil in the stomach,
not the hair rooted in the curves of the brain,
not the slow peach fuzz around the iris that ties shoe laces
in double knots,
sends me tripping through smooth space into the darkened stupor of earth,
not the fueled rage of remnants from white shame passed;
simply the slow crawling daily ache of the ice,
hours after alcohol,
the notated record of pain in the orbital cortex,
the phsycopathic ebb and cessation
telling me that I partook hours ago and now must face a poison
so strange how it rots from the inside out
the surface feels a tingle
and beneath is pure
boil and scars
fading only with
the river of tumbling time
bounding and bouncing along in its liquid wake.
Why is this so? The slow ache?
the teeth clenching
the grinding of fingerpad against soft shell of nail?
It is hard to say other than
there is a pressing feeling.”
Psi: about 15
Subject: a can of soda, pop, soda pop, cola, what have you
and not, of course, in the literal sense, he is a boy at sea level;
He, although the standard of pressure is typical for this altitude, finds just a slight imbalance between himself and the amount of weight that must be exerted on him in order to maintain that the molecules in his body remain intact with themselves.
His attempts at seeking lower ground in order to find a higher pressure of air molecules pressing him together have proven useless and he has resorted to alcoholism in order to calm what he sees as his own bodily carbonation at his cultural guilt.
results to follow in future reports.