"First, there was a moment of blood
here"
and he brandishes his thin hand
to illuminate the scar,
"That brought my face
into focus, reflected
in a pebble-pitted pool of rain water.
I'd fallen." He implies this
with
hands and waist parallel
to a strange ground.
"I'd just been drinking wine,
at
an art-kicks art-show; pop-art
arranged around trays
of blueberry flavored (and hughed)
vodka shots, and paintings made
of multi-colored dots,
and custome sharpie-colored shoes."
He sips from his cup, shrugs,
and continues, "You know
that I love the stuff, but
once again, I drank too much."
He grins, and waits for approval.
He knows his audience, as thier
knowing laughter proves.
"So, I was at a bar, where
specifically there, Gin and Tonics,"
and he emphasizes gin
by throwing that cup back,
dribbling a little,
a quaver of self-conscious lip receding,
"-uh, they're my
kryptonite, my
night of thought, my
darkness time, you know,
GIN and tonics.
Equestrian anatomy
for the thinking crowd."
He giggles, happy with himelf,
kicking in his cups.
"So I went over the fence
at one point. You wanna," he burps,
"Woof, uh, piss off a bouncer?
Hop off of the fence. Wave and
smile, wear tweed and
say bye."
He waves lazily, but his eyes crease
small, happy crescents
where his face does not.
"So, the house party,
was breaking over my head,
and instead of a friend's bed,
I wanted my own, though
not before blood was spilled,
or wine, watever, some red
had to die, a bottle I never finished,"
he crosses his arm over his eye
as if tragedy's red cowl
had passed by,
"Poor thing, poured
down the drain. Thank Bachus' sweet grapes
the memories I can't retain."
And for a moment he faulters
under that liquid weight
of draughts memory never attained,
"I, apparently left for my place
in a 360 degree mismatch, a
movement of poles, a change
from my house
to home on the range.
Subconcious, direction found
a profoundly strange space."
"So I found the spot I wasn't
and had not looked for, a dot
on an unfamiliar map, a lack
of place. In gravel and shingled roofs
that loomed down, where
later I learned there were no
noise ordinances
to stop trains from floundering
your screams."
And he laughs at that,
not to lighten the mood,
because he cackles
too close to crowing
to ease anyone's mind.
"So I looked at my dying phone,
oh! this one!"
He holds the pitiful thing out,
then ponders its small power.
"The art-show friend helped me out,
google-mapped me back
to places unlit by ghost-lights
and unfamiliar street-lamps, talked me back
past weird reaching trees
and highway donut shops
so lonely in the 3:00 am air's charcoal outline.
I spoke
strange and distance-strangled
utterances
circa-airports
into small electric-holes,
and made my way back
to Me."
He bows, and then directs his applause
towards the hidden heroes
of which he spoke.
"And I found a 7-11,
and bought chips and a coke,
and proceeded to soak
in my shower
until 6:00 am,
lotus position, finding a center
in the heart of hot-water,
a slow place to stew. I
tell this to you because
I have no reputation to lose,
and because
that night
I didn't have a fucking clue."
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