Update.

It only takes a minuscule, imaginary glimpse
of a shard of joy to get my skin crawling:
The wandering concept of a touch
or laughter in the third degree.

I'm trying to imagine an evening
without passing out drunk
and it seems impossible.

Forget trying to work it out;
putting it in some logical order.
What about when it cascades?
When nothing makes sense.
When it keeps on coming.
What about then?

Spent too long telling myself
I was ready for anything,
now I put a bottle on my lips
and wait impatiently for an end.

It will come, I know it will,
but whether I am there
to shake its hand
is another question.