i don't want to be in bed.

unconscious and still,
i want to rage against the world
from my kitchen floor.
full of cigarettes and moonshine.
full of warm thoughts and old guilt.
full of lipstick teeth
and ripped pantyhose.
hair wild and breaths deep,
i will remain.

propped up by the fridge,
empty until payday.

i will write late into each night
staring just past the page
until, either the world comes into focus,
or i become certain that it never will.

friends

I love plastic bottles of lighter fluid on a back porch
next to an old chair, pale blue paint cracking in the weather
dirty boots kicking it over steered by drunken feet

there are stories that i cant know about that bottle
how it is old, and hardly used,
slightly watered down because the cap was never fastened tight
how it holds the screen door open for groceries, for laundry, for goodnight kisses
how its a shrine, or a legend
or a fraud, holding only water
or the chair has become too attached over the years,
and the inside tenants cant bare to separate them