last drunken thoughts:
before the close of day.
before the silence and slow breath catch
him in their arms and squeeze him into submission under blankets and over pillow.
he would wish for an american spirit
but he doesn’t smoke.
knows the reciprocation of spring cleaning in december,
preemptive, careful, and ultimately lonely.
one more whiskey,
hiding quietly behind the shroud of thoughtlessness that comes with the taste.
sets him out of tune with the vibration of quiet and how it decimates that which comes into contact.
The waves of buzz really should be considered swirls,
like geting the notes out of a glass of merlot,
they pull the consciousness in circles until there is no true north.
he closes his eyes and lets the cocoon of cotton take him to a world
separate from anything between his ears
a dark, warm, dry land with a deeper swirl than he has now.
the drip of a faucet taking him deeper and deeper out.