the more beer i drink
there more blasphemies
the more heresies i think
but honest…there is that
He knows what i’m thinking
but i only know me
only it seems when i’m drinking
every hidden thought pours
as if from some endless tap
every broken buried nightmare
cut into my scarred self
every lost place on my interior map
is thrown up and onto my lap
but He listens all the same
this great comforter of drunks
this beautiful lover of sluts and monks
He says…i know i know i know
i always knew, i never couldn’t know
and i can pass out stupid and broken
because He’s always there – just so