the table

one glorious day
seven calendar years long
where icicles dripped grief
from the eaves.
thick skin
was the clothes
I slept in
and morning
i resumed the holy
hell mantra,
the low repetition
of bad thoughts
that pushed me off to sleep.
old folks
that survived their own
suicide
become thankful old husks
with wet eyes
and quiet admiration
for kids departing to
do it again.
‘so long sailor.
think of me
in the horse latitudes.’



to those i’ve drunken under the table:
it’s lonely up here.