One

"We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become
unmanageable."


A moral compass can't weather
treacherous rapids, foaming mouth of denial,
where strong handed and stern voiced
police shake down a bloated body, clearly
only weapon this shoeless, braless frame
could conceal is a jungle gym of lies.
the men record the longitude and latitudes
carved in this skin, Jesus Christ,
the whole world will know where it's been.

In cool, calmer pools of clear water,
the womb coughs strings of blood;
the intestines revolt Simpsons' yellow bile,
because "Last night...I think, I may have been hurt."
unsteady waves of doubtful words.

It's that reverse fade-to-black style,
awake on top of frail knobby baby horse legs
of a cripple, I realize, we're fucking.
there was nothing to do, but continue
onto Book 17 of the Resentment Odyssey we write,
in seeping red marrow, closed eyes
because this fear could break his spindled limbs.

The blister is larger, hobbling in boots,
down bleak, shadowed allies, a little Columbus
falling off the razor sharp edge of the world
a small discount liquor store,
because this life is merely an untapped keg of potential
where east and south serge
and the horizon cannot stop
a leaking boat willing to emerge.