Whiskey & Cigarettes

Fumbling a label of lament I poor out here in writ. A shot in the dark of over all departure that of my salty sour rimmed lashes splash over in thought. As if to wet my beak to mention drowning my sorrows in meager anomaly. The end bar seat a cherry red coal light in the eyes center reflect back in the dark screen of the TV. As I drift back and forth, left to right of boredom. Between masturbation, drugs, Jesus, & work. Life in the under belly of monotony with monetary wimbels floating ED functionally impaired. Old crows cawing in corn rye sucking down cancer with Irish coffee to loosen my gut. Turning daylight outside in the distance of my mind. I watch other people live their lives & think what evils they might conduct. Or try to guess their secrets kept by the interactions inside the small circles of habitations. With small talk, hand jesters, wave offs to answer phones in the dim twilight of neon tube vesper from the dance floor. Spent loneliness between ice melting an rift the time & maybe go home with somebody. As always another sibling of the universe bound to human migrations & mating rituals. With love from a monotheistic Hobo Rehab where they want me to stay off social media long enough to pray the gay away. Yours truly A Low Type Poet.