Life Without Plural

I ain’t bright
nor particularly peculiar
sans Saturday night

I drink alone
but for communion
and Monday backwash

I don’t echo
recon redemption
preach or petition

I half-ass barter
psyche for syllable
all the while aware
the life sentence

Outer Drive West



drunk on breaking news
I linger
ordering yet another,
brace it back.
a frown so hard
my brow acquires
yet another headline
a new wrinkle
a new image
too high to die
on details
I ask was God asleep?
maybe like in our image
early Saturday morning,
is no time to mind
the store,
or for that matter
the heavens


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