Bearing the weight of words; worlds

Well Mr.    
Chinaski,    
the wine's got me by the will,    
(I'm sure you'd say my woman’s got me by the    
balls)–    
and though I respect your work I    
can't quite say I'd agree–    
wheat and    
chaff.    
   
   
Long after first light I    
rise, my    
head still    
sagging to one    
side—    
waterlogged with the    
Midnight Dew.    
Hangover hounding,    
baying at the    
back door of my cranium.    
McCarthy mixes with the    
brain fog    
and    
both plume upward to some unseen  
place in    
kind,    
I shuffle to my    
desk    
and the    
words begin to seep from the    
tip of a gel pen to an    
unassuming    
page wallowing in its    
potential    
yet    
unrealized—    
a fine layer of sheen for    
the    
parking-lot Puddle of    
pedestrian mucus,    
ratshit and    
old motor oil.