The Day After, Again

Oh, my cup is to ponder, warring blackness
that creamed with velvet smoothness, wet flesh engaging
Yes! Wants my body, naked, and slogging from the day's death
and as I gather my frailties about me like a huge beer buckle
Thumbs hooked, betrays a hint of unsteadiness.

“Crying boy? I’ll spank you till you stop!” I chuckle now
It’s what I have, and after all he meant well.
How many promises, to not pass on some epitaph?
Cold and calculating, hell knocks, but fuck off, i say, learning.
I sip the cup and start my own, personal day
like a 1978 304 racing block that hates a cold morning.

Shattered from the nightmarish prophecy of a Memphis derelict
The wonderful Indonesian potion pulses through my conflict
Puts the pieces of my “self” in order, alive, ready for the fight
Like old country music at night, leaves my soul curious and yet
I down another gulp of the salted brew, and feel the resurrection.

The insurrection, a happy old habit from Grandpa Joe Collins
“Ah,” I make obligatory gasps of appreciation, and look to the news in the “hood,”
where some teen aged cartoon character planned to columbine
He was shot permanently senseless before he could rain down fire
Down indeed, the next slug, heaven on earth, after all “it’s all good.”

A lie, that, but sometimes I trap that one and torment it
Swish it around in my mouth, the words taste like an old shoe.
Chew them up, fling them at the stars, and “do tell.”
Feels better now to meet the battle full, and know
that eyes wide open, I can walk to the counter
brew one more wonderful fresh pot and I’m good to go.