There's an empty bottle on the edge of the table,
and an old baseball bat next to the bed.
I woke again to my unfriendly ceiling.
The things that come out of his mouth...
that wide meandering crack I refuse to repair
the gaping maw of self-criticism
Maybe I'm just too fucking weird.
Maybe I'm just too fucking nice.
First fire drill of the morning.
Your world is on fire old man,
grab bottle, and tilt.
Something black and silty falls out of the bottom.
The dregs of my old life.
Reminders of better time rejected like unwilled bile.
...or some exotic spice to cover the taste of ass and alchohol.
You be the judge.
I cup my head in my hands.
The burning forest is catching up to me.
I can't douse it.
I can't outrun it.
But I sure as hell can forget it.
I reach into the emergency stash,
what would be a sock drawer,
and drown myself in bitter angry liquid.
I may have forgot the fire, but the sky is still falling.
I take a pill or six out of the cabinet and crush them under the edge of the bottle,
a red-eyed, blurry stranger stares back when I swing the mirror shut again.
Sweep, mix, pour, swallow. Dialate. Put on a helmet, deploy your umbrella.
And everything's suddenly fine.
