(Anatomy of a Drink. Pt. I)
It’s when it sits of your lap
lying askew
on one thigh
Searching for the other who rests
in a non-participatory mood.
The world view is a match.
At a crossroads.
This minute.This night.
This life.
Every decision stuffed
of profundity.
Every choice made
of whim.
The drink has a hold.
But never right!
Ever present and ever effected.
But ha!
It’s never tight.
We will indulge.
We stare out into darkness and stare out into space.
Our hands are guided by rote and by practice.
We find meaning
but return nonetheless.
Purity becomes base
and base becomes home.
This is comfort. This is food.
This is shifted healing
during opportunities missed.
Here comes the rote.
A habitual ritual.
my head is a dive bomb into my own abyss.
10.0
No splash.
-Raphael Armand
