internet morning drive

one pint

at the top of the glass, they call it the head.
and isn’t that what you lose first?
i sip, a wet coward fawn,
the entire earth and my inevitable annihilation in a pint,
noticing
cool, seeming depth, and
on my tongue my teeth a wash,
the first brave wave, erosion:
take one, scene always.

star stuff in a fat cylinder,
cinema syringe,
only it takes and takes and won’t
put back.
clouds, brown white, sticking on the inside of the glass, that
neverlasting landscape sinking from each esophogeal vortex:
lips, throat, guts, bloodstream, brain, switch?
flipped.

the head is now a flapjack on a griddle,
and i warm up to all this coordination: the jukebox, punching deep in the corner,
a shadow boxing bible belt,
sonic anaconda,
and all night, live, behind the bar
it’s another burlesque from the
R U O Kays.

stop imagining
it’s a question. it’s a prompt,
a bullet, a gas pedal.
after a few plugs, i fire one shot back!!
wounding the only person i ever get the chance to care for.
it ain’t fatal, kiddo, it’s fate.
now
it’s hitting me, the vacuity:
the direction is down, the emptying end,
this fucker’s glass is half the way gone.

the rest, long headsplatter. hihowaryas, sweet carolines, and we’ve become
what we are,
Lorenz butterflies, alive just once.
this frittering, lightning once.

it’s almost all
inside me now, and i’m
saving what’s left in the glass.
sips become punctuation;
i wait now for only the greatest punchlines,
hang between every fiercely
independent
clause, and i am a desperate nightengale
watching the clock run out on the best night of our lives,
with not one ace to play,
athwart all my sticatto, vibratto,
bravado and caustic.
and so and so
i bifurcate the gulps into sips into tastes,
until i start to see through to the
sunrise bottom of my alement.

do i crave you, another?
sure, cocksure, no lookin’ back blind.
that’s not what ever, ever matters.
the remains, this sulking husk is proof:
i can’t handle you.

One Pint. (Taken with instagram)

as many kisses you can get and still lose the game. (Taken with instagram)

oh no!! the butterfly’s got Tom!! (Taken with instagram)

Hammocked. (Taken with instagram)

Auguste Escoffier would disapprove, but sometimes you gotta throw lunch under the bus: (Taken with Instagram at Curb Systems)

Ideal living room: 1. Brew your own beers. 2. Build a Beer Fridge with taps. 3. Put a big TV on top of the fridge. 4. Dartboard. {oh, I guess the SB pre game is on, too.} (Taken with Instagram at Stead, Nv)

To prove my life isn’t always tearing through one bottle or another: (Taken with instagram)

Dad trying out his namesake’s Chambermade guitar. (Taken with instagram)