I bottle up my terrors
in self-prescribed libations
while drying out the night sweats
on a clothesline called the bar.
I sing the body electric
in a bathtub with a vacuum cleaner
praying that the fuse blows
me straight into the light.
I walk through my conscious laughter
into hazy ragged dreamscapes
of yesteryears gone haywire
and tomorrows not to come.
I huddle half nervously
near the bottle in front of me,
doubting its superiority
to a frontal lobotomy;
still, this kid's shaking safe
in her burning peptic embrace.
