Something breaks inside
And you’re off.
You always start with some money,
A fifth maybe,
And the whole grim adventure
Fills you with excitement.
You aren’t partial to the bars or taverns,
But it doesn’t really matter
Where you drink.
You aren’t much of a social drinker.
Your preference, such as it is,
Leans towards isolation
Drinking in emaciated woods
With indigent alcoholics twenty years your senior.
The first fifth goes quick.
You never were one to waste time
Chasing down a buzz.
But it isn’t enough.
One bottle is never enough,
But the money is getting scarce.
Somehow, you scrape the money up
For another bottle of cheap vodka
And you’re off once again
On this desperate game.
Conversations are banal and haphazard
Under the weight of this much liquor.
You hear the drunken tales you’ve heard
A million times before
And laugh once again.
You fear the horrors that the morning may bring.
No, God, no. Please, not yet.
A heavy fog has settled over you
And everyone’s movements have fallen
Into exaggerated eighty-proof slapstick.
Some pass out.
You drift in and out
Of a black out.
All is darkness.
The night is cold when you wake up
And your faithful companions
Are nowhere to be found.
Soiled with piss and spilled liquor,
You stare at the sky above
Asking for answers
From the shrieking silence of God.
You lie there for hours.
It is all you can do.
At those who admire destruction
As if it were a holy mandate.
As if it were some wicked destiny
Dealt out like revenge
For a glaring lack of courage.