whisk'n drams

fumbled getting the key in the lock.

took ‘bout five minutes

before i heard the tumblers click –

nesting in the notch’d metal.

with gentle press, i swung the

door open. light hit me, blind’d,

as my perception bled in constant

to the left. nothing seem’d to have

it’s own place, or space.

i would turn my head from the left,

and the world would be right’d.

stop’d movement,

world bled left, and

i went for the couch.

“Where have you been?”

the maternal commandant.

“Where. Have. You. Been?” out.

my left-most body

felt stretch’d, felt warp’d. out. i’ve been out.

“What’s wrong with you?”

a seconds pause.

“Are you fuck’d up?”

she’s got me.

“You are fuck’d up,

aren’t you?”

how obvious.

dialogue never left mind

through mouth. knowing better is

ninety-percent of the solution.

of the problem.

“Who are you?”

her voice rising.

“Where is my son?”

her voice peaking.

“What have you done with Cole?”

he’s taking a break from this,

this… this reality.

he need’d some time.

she huff’d indignant, and turn’d

to return to a yellow-lit kitchen

where she hosts a friend.

both stoned, both drunk,

both lost to me through slurs.

But I am your son

bleeding left, pupils constrict’d.

But I am your son;

bleeding left, sour-smelling breath.

I am your son.

bleeding left, falling right, falling into

the darkness of a thousand-year sleep.