the bottle top grips my palms
and twists me around until it is opened
or maybe I am closed
it may have been the room moving after all

this day of sweat and apprehension
chills at the loss of the sun
sinks into prickling suspension
the dawn will be cold.

this whiskey knaws my raw mouth
while the fumes thunder through my head

I could sit here forever and wait
until the oxygen runs screaming from my cells
the fault of the fool is disclosure
exposure and vanity
but the wise man never tells
his solution is elegant in simplicity
quiet in dignity
and perverse in its utility.

i am the fool
my solution is painful
arrogant in complexity
false in civility
and impotent in its sterility

I will be sitting here
until the empty bottle
throws me away

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