Drunk and in Dreams

The soft nights over the sandy beach

reach over the mountains and beneath the moon.

The stale summer brings heat and casual,

sweaty tosses in the cotton sheets. The cat

on the patio lies around: stretched out and sleeping deep,

waiting for that big, white globe

to roll away and decay into dawn—the spawn

sun rising. My pillow under my skull

is as soft as billow of smoke from my stash of “Acapulco gold,”

rolled in a cigarillo and lit. I never have

a tough time through the night and I dream

of pleasure: sex and drugs above the Hells

beneath me. Stars stare through the mural sky

and I know they’re watching as I cast away time

in a helix of imagination and infatuation from behind

my lazy head about the said Forces

and their computer program. If it wasn’t for the king and queen,

life would be a scam: people defying the sham

and Jehovah saying to his children, “I am.”

Tonight’s dreams are shadowed into the depths

of my mind and soon I’ll find myself feeding

the cat and not remembering that every thought

is real and I’ll stand still behind the coffee pot

(good to the last drop), burning the day’s cigarette—

me trying to quit—and I’ll pass the day to lounging

and to red wine that eases the stress of dying—

my peril trying—and I’ll slip off again,

“three sheets to the wind.”

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I just wrote it an hour ago. Thought I’d share and maybe pick up some pointers. Thanks in advance!

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