When thirst is a kind of pleasure
in and of itself, that’s when you know you’re fucked
up. And when hunger pervades
you’ll know it’s time
to not give up. It’s around the temperature
in which water freezes, and you know
enough to realize that you’re mostly made
of the stuff, but the warmth of tequila and beer
keeps you going even though you know
the stories your mentor shared
would be more permanent if you weren’t incontinent.
The interior of this train
that I keep writing about is yellow,
even though I feel like it should be blue.
The former color is ambiguous
and doesn’t bring back any memories.
Just because I didn’t write the poem
Different shades of light
are (collectively) a meaning.
I’ve never seen the new moon,
nor the full Luna in an untainted environment.
My view varies only slightly. In Ireland
I forgot about the sky,
perhaps because all the grass and flowers
I am amazed at my
so I walk around
cities in poetic
through the trash
in my mind, but more
often than not
I am intoxicated
and so the words rot.