Deep breaths into empty stomachs

It was a god-given right
to wake up on days much like this one
have the bile rearrange itself in to narrative
maybe listen to some Rachmaninoff piano concertos
anything to work through the nausea.
Suddenly I possess the spine of some older creature
ass cheeks, thighs and prick sticking to the vinyl chair covering
some lousy joke about peeling myself off
not really looking at anything
not wanting to be looked at.

What is there to love about a room full of people
singing ‘Sweet Caroline’
temporarily in love with each other.
Signing drunken verbal contracts
to meet the next day
-not too early-
to continue where we all left off.
Where friendships are formed I wince in pain
bite my tongue
and let momentum carry.

There is no artform to going back on your word
But there is an artistry to making it sell.
The worse thing we can do
is leave small fragments of ourselves in these kinds of places
so that we have to drag what’s left of ourselves
rIght back in to the belly of the whale
where Rachmaninoff stands at the back of the room
singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ in to a broken karaoke machine.