the good stuff

when i wake to find the dog bowl
filled with the last of the hundred
dollar bourbon, i know it is a chance

for me to face how bad it has gotten.
i try to remember how the bourbon
found its way into the bowl.

remembering is an exercise. i see the night
like bodies through a shower curtain.
i am jealous of how the water shines flesh.

eventually i recall only the thought
that the dog was so good, such
a perfect little creature, all spit

and heart and dirt,
surely he must deserve the good stuff.



i imagine the south carolina girls,
their faces cracking like august earth.
veins of sweat roll from their hairlines,
flooding away: asphalt grit, foundation
from bottles and buildings, silky spider-web spit
hung in strings.
i want to grind their bodies
against a washboard, pinch their shoulders tight
with clothespins, ask them
how they feel about doing “women’s work.”

drink, drank, drunk

it was drinking myself from the inside out:
every drop of internal stuff sucked dry,
every pearl of bile or blood or stomach acid
drained. i tossed my bones around inside
my skin, thought they might look better
arranged some other way.

on my back in a room blanketed by blue
curtains, fingers pressed against the wall
trying to steady a body rolling
like wind-beaten dunes. he licks and twists me,
trying to wring the last bit of wetness
from cartilage, metacarpals, the sheen
over the eyeballs – where he stands,
no puddle forms.





Lofted and sheetless
unruly giggles ping ponging through
cracked screens
tumbling into the smallest cinder block cased space
two people could occupy.

I am fermenting
on thursday evening around
10:47 pm I
begin churning  my sugars
brewing in the top bunk.

180 proof
on a college campus infatuated
with inebriation
(grab a dictionary –
morning classes skipped,
sunglasses no where to be found)
reveling in the bitter
appeal of back throat burns,
“thirsty thursday”
spent speechless
brewing in the
top bunk.