Outside is a wet cigarette. Last night is
half ash, half scrambled porn.
I put what where? There’s a dead rat
in my mouth. Teeth fuzzy,
fermented, near-victims of a flood
hauled up sputtering and waterlogged.
The morning crackles like the desert
between stations on the AM dial.
The stock market is one thing,
an op-ed on abolishing the penny another.
There’s a recession lurking somewhere.
I’m out of Advil. I can’t think of what to give up first.