1448

It’s 10.

I’m not sure if it’s night

or morning.

My skin feels like wet canvas.

The heat races down my collar

sweat stumbles down my back

a pack of tranquilized ponies

heaving and trotting

for a moment I feel like

Jesus

and a father

too drunk to sleep.

It’s close to 1.

1:15 maybe. I’m not sure

what day it is.

I look at a woman

with brown hair and skin

pulled tight like the

leather on a pommel horse.

My teeth are Christmas lights

bright glowing crystals

wrapped in hard rubber

beating against my gums.

I think of an old lover.

I’m a blind jester

I stretch like taffy

all I can do is breathe.

It’s 4. 3:50. Something.

Everything is orange.

A man with a short ponytail

and a temper only

young stupid drunks can have

tells me I can’t stay.

I’m cradling her

top of a torn sleeping bag

her back feels like

the tension on a still lake.

I cry in her car.

We drink vodka on her couch

me shivering with a hard on

her

some form of blind angel

a few minutes later

when our clothes

have reformed into

a sagging mountain

I disappear

and under the moon

I vomit grey

and my sweat smells like

painkillers and rainbows.

——

A plane buzzes overheard