Parking Garage Monologue

Little bourbon manifesto

mood, who knows

what’s waiting around

the next risky abyss

here where the squat

hypostyle concrete looms

echoing drip and footstep.

On the strand outside

I’ll watch the sunset

wring itself to ashy tints,

look over my shoulder

and see what else washes up

on the slippery drift

of cause and effect.

O for some breathable distance

where the root of the heart feeds

—but abstruse and never

mind. A dull ache

persists: I’m like these cars,

queued and idling,

anxious for the next level

while running out of gas.

Pleasure doesn’t stop

fear, it just blurs change.

Such bleak comforts after years

of using the world—too bad

the world has to be used at all.

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