you drink and you drink
and you drink again
from this dollar a bottle life
for reasons you best not speak
then you crash to the bathroom
so that you can throw up
to make room for more,
for more and more and more
only to fall dizzy to the floor
retching up your black ink soul
as it all spills out before your eyes
like an abstract piece of your car-crash past
like a putrid Picasso of your imperfect present
poem after poem after poem
words that leave you feeling empty
hungry for a greasy breakfast
of a world you’re shocked to still be in
that you might have the fuel
for the next binge-induced purge
when truth burns your throat
and you can’t contain it any longer.