Collection

There’s a perfect line of bottles under my basement stairs.  Largest to smallest.  A flavorful rainbow of tin twist-off caps, sticky.  There isn’t pride in the display, only reminders and the need for reminders.  Banana vodka, sometime in November.  Call Christopher, he’ll fill you in.  These are the things I never write about.  The goosebumps and lacerations.  The dried vomit on my chin.  My favorite sweater, stained.  My blood or yours?  My night, or theirs?  There’s no such thing as a hangover if you time things right.  These are the things I never touch on.  A poem is shit compared to the feel of your spine on the concrete, the gravel in your hair.  Bleary love poems penned over egg whites, coffee with Kahlua, cloudy and burnt everything.  Hold the salt.  Unless it’s around the rim.