An Ode to Id and Hard Cider

This fasting, unfasting, and puking —
this is my first death. (and of course
the slow fermenting of my life)

a topless toughening of bra-less words
pantiless failures – exposed with arms
surrounding a toilet, conquering

this eating of failure is the safest way
to dream, the simplest break
a soul-fast - a son - a daughter.

I chew the minty gum and swallow.
He carps. She cajoles. We fry and worry later
about the burning butter.

That man is strange. He is me. Or not.
His hands are nicked. His hands are scraped.

In the chipped corner of the mirror,
his brain's case rests.

Offered coffee, his lips
open and close like a dock-bound bass,
"Thank you, no" he thinks

He has nothing evil left to do
The thick blue vein puffs in and out
 
He swallows. I swallow.
He is me. Or not.
the best part of my life

Staring.

gurgling a sarcastic
slightly ironic word

that i can't make out

and  then last night’s dinner
breaks the fast
in a moment of popped-clutch
reverse

our eyes unfocused,
he staggers and falls from the mirror
and then he is gone

I suffer the indignity of porcelain
just the silence.

In the corner are the boxers
I wore yesterday
a moldy sort of orange

The threadbare fabric obscuring the truth
about my joyfully wallowed self-pity
Obscuring nothing but dustbunnies

ten minutes more, every word
is naked. My arms
ache

In the flash of darkness
I imagine

a well lit casket and one last cigar.