I lurch through the doors of the cinderblock,
and set out into the breathless night
as the doors thud shut on the soulless, slumbering within.
The road is counterfeit, no gold bricks here.
Just black tar and drab cement stretching into eternity,
steamrolled to submission.
Half –burnt street lights briefly illuminate
the heap of discarded bottles,
then flicker, and expire.
A hacking smoke cloaks the breathing corpses
and taints the frozen air.
Scalding coffee, hastily swallowed, chars my words
and I can regurgitate no sounds to satisfy
the pack of howler monkeys swarming nearby.
Even so, it would be most pleasing,
to thrash him with a pin striped necktie
if only he owned one
or choke her with a pocket dictionary,
until she stands in a pool of vomited polysyllables
soaking and staining her new knockoff Jimmy Choos.
I will not be the one clear thought in this intoxicated mind,
forced to stomach my reality while they retch theirs up.
And yet each time I come to soak with them, I watch instead:
There are half burnt street lights and empty bottles.
There is hacking smoke and warm corpses and frozen air.
There are bright butterflies that erupt from their skulls,
swatted and trampled into the sidewalk by a thousand staggering limbs.