We take our wine-drowned stupor
and hide away our new world shadows
in the dirt of the homeless bottle
to keep them from the fade to bitter acid,
where love letter and blood's throttle
turn to promises and tasteless daydreams;
poorly made, and never lasted.
The wisest of us taste wine and vinegar,
the smell that something is off,
feel its pull on our broken hearts
that pains, then wanes, then stirs..
and speaks as smoker's cough,
and joins the blurring of the world
from the lunatic's glass trough.
We're ghosts of religious interrogation
and celebrate our gross detachment
in the sated staleness of our nation,
in isolation, trauma, and attachment,
by stumbling into our furnished cells
with red eyes and vomit-stained tongues,
and leaning against blank walls, no area
for a calendar to be hung.