Something About Bars

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