It was lonely,
that day,
and so I
drank a bottle
of wine.
Simplicity, red,
and the slew
of sprites
from the red
wine wrote
for me.

I got drunk, I said
to myself.

But I never prepared
myself for the real
hangover that is
re-reading the twenty
poems I wrote,
and meant,
if only at that
time.

I sit here now,
tired of it all. But as
long as beetles roll
shit up hills in
Africa, and Masters
of Fine Arts programs
do the same,

I can get drunk and lonely
some times, and then
inevitably forgive myself
for occasionally
writing like Ashberry's
smoking curtains
as he watches the Brazilians
march in the street
while nibbling at bits
of paper

rolled into balls.

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