Good Morning

My consciousness is pregnant
this hung over workday morning,
a spittoon for tornados,
updraft bitter bile
and downdraft bulbous waste.
Converging midst the supercell,
clouds bloat, refusing rain.
A trip to the fridge
follows a commanding piss.
Body dry, the imperative urge to shit
hijacks a coerced attempt to fry eggs.
Grapefruit sweat, vodka belch
skips back, Tivo time
tapping arrhythmias and
palpitations parade the life instinct rub
for the death instinct blues. A drizzle
dissolves the stroke from aquamarine
to water. From the pool, musings
swim, pageant-like to exit dripping
and bikinied.

one: though buried your locks still bind
two: I should have used a map
three: there were memorable conversations
innumerable: memory a shoebox full of milk

and me, biting sperm from my solar plexus, talking through sanding teeth to the man whose bridge has a verse but I, too, am verbose.