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Poem

In the After Hour, afterlife, away from
borough and a woman. I bellied barstools 
for balance, contemplating the ensuing draft;
Rumpkin, to be exact. The taste of nutmeg
calling forward a wayward heart, swimming
like Lochte, trying hard, to remember the truth
of mama's porridge in Dutchpots.
I'm still not steady writing these lines.
The mischief of barreled ale brings a flat,
and I'm happy for that, because
a percentage of today's people
are way too high, above bigger successes,
then collapse before my organs sang,
annoyed at my choosing, the likes I hate. 
Still, there are many spirits below me,
small people, smaller without their flesh,
the worms took eyes they cannot use,
and someone said, "Taste Mezcal,"
but how could I,  after knowing 
what scientists did not reveal; 
there's a worm in it. From this place,
my understanding will travel by uber
on a bridge over the slope of a small hill,
under a quick tunnel to a shelter
where sleep and resurrection is revenge
From my head, in lengths, you can see defeat, 
embodied in a notable woman, flare nails,
hair; Brazilian. Her bed hosts a man,
sleeping, still tied to a post, David's Psalms
over his wasted body, Psalm 23. She sits there.
the sacred letters written on dead goatskin
could not come alive for any of us,
and suddenly I know why David slew Goliath;
he was ignoring his poetry, devotedly

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