drinking to write

I've finished my drink and 

Debating another, bored

With Raymond Carver

But there's so much liquor

In his words,

In so many poets' really

I feel as if to quit drinking

Is to quit writing, feeling, breathing

I'm only a small part of an equation

Maybe just the mechanics

Guess the magic likely comes from

Thom Yorke's falsetto

This near empty bottle

Late September almost-cold

Crickets

Smell of cinnamon

Undeniably internal impulses

Are also at play.

I really think another drink

Will squeeze out a truth

As it tends to always

Find me, tap me, and leave me dry

Also

Nothing matters anymore

If it ever did

Might as well. 

only sometimes, though

Sometimes

Lying in bed

There's the sensation

Of sinking down hard

Heavy into the springs

While all at once

On the verge of

Levitating above. 

Odd moments where

Everything I hold feels

Too much for my fragile limbs

A fleeting weakness in my mind

That turns my arms to brittle toothpicks

And all else into dense weights. 

Sometimes I look around

And can only hear what I'm thinking

Question the authenticity of experiences

The reliability of my senses

Reality, normality, sanity.

Sometimes I'm a little crazy.

boring normal soup

I'm rolling through feelings

While searching out songs by theme

To say things too awkward to voice

But universal enough

For these songs to exist

To sing the things I feel so hard

And I'm just lost in these

Societal norms 

Just kill me

I'm done 

a bit lost

I don't know

Anymore how to be

I tried kindness

And the rain

Washed it gone

And now

Tragically placed approvals

Are tiny betrayals

Acquaintances

Becoming stranger

The middle is no longer

Comfortable or true

The edges are violent

Hiding is cowardly

There feels like

Nowhere safe to stand

And being in this dark place

Isn't allowed

When others are in darker

Distancing (like always)

It's hard to breath

And I don't even have

This fucking virus.

Everything is split in half

With each side

Screaming, tearing, pulling

Just seeking out the facts

That fit what they already believe.

Painting the "other side"

As the enemy

When we're all dying here

Together. 

Like always.

I'm just numb on the sofa

Filling with beer.

Touching my face. 

Questioning everything

Avoiding reality

Either panicked and paranoid or

Too deadened by it all

To really care.

Like always. 

This Morning's Dream

We worked in the dark

Half dancing, gathering twigs

By campfire

Under watchful frown

From a leathery old man

While our shadows played

Together in the trees.

Back in the cabin

You removed your leg

Made dinner

Pushed hair from your eyes

While I messed with the prosthesis

Propped by the screen door. 

The old man told us stories

From the war

Then shot a bullet into the ceiling

As punctuation. 

Surreal Times

I wake up
check the death toll
again
before the covers come off
before my glasses go on
numbers that numb me
but the birds are all singing
the sun is shining
in this weird little pocket of normal.

This is not happening.

I wake my daughter
not for school
(which is out for summer vacation
before spring break even arrived),
but to keep me company
since my job closed a week ago
for I don't know how long
and now I'm left with so much time.

I force myself not to look at the news.

I do all the chores
that I never had time for

realize this is what it's like
to be a stay at home mom,
and I think I might like it
under other circumstances.

laundry
dishes
make lunch
shut the bedroom door
sit in silence and cry

I go for a walk through town
fresh air
exercise
no one within six feet of me.

I see everyone out in their yards
kids playing, lawns being mowed
people trying their hardest to keep moving
when everything else is grinding to a halt.
Cheery smiles but tired eyes.

I wave and ask, "How're you?"

Everyone says,

"Doing good...considering."

A morning mood before falling asleep

All this form it's just a puff of smoke

Edges dissipating into alien atmosphere

Freezing into awkward shapes

Too self aware for comfort

Is there actually any existence

Or all dream

What dictates reality anyway