Coming home drunk

Coming home drunk


The keys are in my pocket,
I mumble to the elevator wall, holding nothing
But my head leant on a mirror.
Fingers freezing fish into the pocket of my life,
My rusty jack-knife and my rolled up dollar Bill.
There they are.


Sitting in the living room

It’s not easy being human; it sucks!
I say to my cat, trying to disregard the shame of her leaving the room
At the height of my grand oratOREOÔ
She flings up her tail and I know I’ve been kitschy again.
I can’t help it, puss, I call to the walls
As she busily scratches the couch.


Going to sleep

The room is a-swinging, matey
I laugh to myself, stumbling through papers and books off the shelves
I hit my head on the bathroom door: why won’t it open?
I access the pothole – the porthole, that is
The mirror inside is spattered with spit
And I aim at the sink and shove toothbrush into my nose
But wait a minute, that won’t work.


Getting into bed

I cover my body, shivering with Cuervo
absolut and absynthe abound
I recite the names of all of Shakespeare’s plays
(the five I remember)
To make the room stop spinning.
Warm colored yellow creeps slowly up my throat
I will not, I won’t, please someone, I don’t
My teeth are all edgy and papery white
And I close my eyes but there is even more light.