Drunk,

you just throw up in the sink,
chew a couple breath mints
and go back online, like
it’s routine maintenance.
Your hands get really steady
when you’re loaded, like
the alcohol slows your nerves
to the point you’re polite
to elders, cops, and dogs
because any of them could bite
you and enjoy it. But you want
to only care about that hour,
whatever it is, where you crack
whatever it is you’re doing,
incessantly, and relax into buzz.
It could be heroin, but that kills
you more quickly than anything
other than meth, and you’d rather
drag along like you have a life,
talking howit frees my artistry
like Bukowski’s Sterno art
and seventy-five books, like
addiction was a fucking muse
and not a closet you can’t get out of,
wrapped in those old coats,
frayed mittens in your mouth,
in the dark, tasting cheap yarn.