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.