No longer is it an act of God.

No longer is it an act of God.
I’d ask a question
but your collective mouths might vomit
and kill me
from this moon so wrapped
in a false habit.

you drank too much
and called too much to a ghost
with a paper plate face and
you swore too much
along a lifeless freeway
while I smoked endlessly.

The chirps are only nice
when we are drunk
So drunk is what we’ll be
and if the sun rises
And we hate ourselves
then we will hate ourselves
but forget to hate the booze
and he’ll scurry away, with all our treasures
he’s taken
to the bottom shelf
until the sun goes down once more.

Pass me a drink, you bastard
because I don’t want to hate you
but it’s hard not to
when I’m sober.

-August 10th, 2010