written after enough time by jake kilroy.
you should've heard me at the bar,
breathing in years like a last meal,
memorizing political discourse
to spout out after we talk art
and donate sex to ourselves.
you have to wonder with each breath,
every saturday night that you see the end of,
so you can write the weekly column to yourself:
an apology, a confession, a sabbath poem all in one.
oh, every poet is religious enough
to use their god complex to pen christ imagery,
and then admit that they heard a sermon from the back pew,
only to admit that they haven't gone to mass since they met you.
this is the booze walking.
this is the drugs talking.
what a spring of weddings.
what a summer of nervous breakdowns.
and then a fall we can never see coming!
before, alas, a winter to recuperate
and promise that next year will be different.