Pitcher of water, please!
to tease this night
from projectile vomiting
to epiphany.

Too many moons have laughed
and smirked into oblivion —
yet direction
stumps me.

Numb on all-purpose
fumes, I assumed clarity
stood crusted
beneath the grime.

Time, that bitch, she might as well
be Prozac tight in orange tubs.

Rub…then scrub your salt
on rusty veins.
If pain could spout
a better truth
why won’t it gush
relentless, loud?