I came home wasted, and put my eyeballs in
a glass with seltzer and then cradled them gingerly,
scraped off what appeared to be hardened salt
as if someone had mistaken my eye rims for a margarita glass.
The day had started badly with a mescaline delivery
from the Devil May Care biker gang,
whose representative mistook my place
of employment for my residence.
The former roadie for a boy band
breaking in and later shanked in prison on pedo suspicion.
Phone call.
Um, Stephen, with the usual emphasis on
the ph from an insult trading session during a lull,
of which I had completely forgotten the substance
of that particular verbal exchange.
Do you know a Mr. Hundred Proof?
I mouth garbled protestations.
Interesting. Feigned yawn.
He seems to think you sleep in the stock room or something.
I mumble and bumble coincidences, may have yous, slanted transmission.
OK, Gregory says don’t bother coming in tomorrow.
The nightshift girlfriend arrives and dispatches
me so she can sleep. I walk blocks. Watch a dog park.
Watch what appears to be sincere enjoyment of kites,
hacky sack and Frisbee golf. Get asked reluctantly
to play 2 on 2 basketball. The heart jumps erratically
as if being tasered from the blind spots,
since lately, my vision often fuses two objects.
A ceremony of sorts, involving a lecture
about responsibility and expired insurance cards,
leaves me upended from the wheelchair,
between two fresh mustard lines
on the glistening blacktop. I drag myself
to another parking lot behind a liquor store
with temporary homies.
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