my head throbs like an erection.
i've kept my entrails locked
inside a womb of spellbinding insight,
gullied the aftermath as it was
interwoven by wormlight.

to my left there is a dying fellow,
my favorite trash can,
mouth crammed full by
beer bottles and lingering rum.

i haven't partaken in a double hour,
and for this, i pat myself on the back.

somewhere in the recesses of my mind,
i hear the phone ring.
the cradle is like a stillborn
in my dusky palm.
i inquire as to the other voice,
my opposite, with its deep
resignations and accusations
that are lined within the
silk of tongue and cheek.

it is my mother, to which,
i hear her mutter for weeks and centuries
about these self worthing projects and
which affair she wants to be healed from.
i can't remember her latest doctors name.
it doesn't really matter.

all these things have
become trivial in the days behind,
ahead, those that
burrow in my subconscious.
i'm disgusted by the superficiality that we've
been reduced to like dogs.

regardless, i hear her.
hear her better than she ever would me,
taking words and ingesting them;
hear her ramblerambleramble
and say things like,

"i know that we cut you more lethally
than any slice-and-dice drive-by,
know that the pain has been
wedged monumentally deep.
however, you're still a drunk.
but i love you."

deftly, i reply "i love you too"
as i place the phone back down,
and slip into remission.

09/26/2004

Author's Note: first one that's felt good in awhile. and the damned thing keeps eating my title.

Posted on 09/26/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe