Sep 09, 2012 00:59
Passing around a Bukowski book and liter of whiskey
taking turns reading and throwing back burning liquid
like these things were the only things that mattered
like we could find absolution in the fuck and fast and fight of the words
that our mouths formed,
in the shapes of our tongues and lips to form them
in the red of our cheeks from the booze
and the bright of our eyes from the magic
like we could find redemption in the passing of the bottle and the book
from one hand to another ink stained, grease stained,
cramped from typing and touching, loving hand
latitudnal lines made from things once horizontal
with the wide expanses of our ever loving, god forsaking and accepting hearts
minds, bodies
the hemispeheres and cortexes, veins and blood and thalamus and sense
inviting it all in, calling it all home, heaven, safe haven and Here
right here
a place to rest cradled in, a space to adhere to, a lobby to the place of loving
a car to crash you into the complication and crazy of it all
to wake up after the crash feeling clean and comforted and alive with possibility
a.