by Rick Mullin

Having nearly snuffed it in a sitting
and now sitting through a four-day hack,
wanting only to be on my back
and staring at the ceiling, it is fitting
I convey my Wednesday reverie
to anyone who cares enough to hear:
Tequila’s made of bigger stuff than beer.
That’s all I have for now (apostrophe)
except how, with the smokes that rolled my binge
into an unaccustomed nimbus, I
may well have upped the pain and suffering
with so much else, sólo un imbecile,
no longer hanging on his so-called hinge,
who, now he’s off it, knows no buffering.


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