Day 3 of sobriety

Fuck you, stay with it

No toe itching till the blood creeps out

No more sappy sitcom over sepia toned down computer light till sleep dribbles

Its way into your slip.

No more manhattans, scotches, ipa’s, negronis, margaritas, bottles of chianti,

Boxes of chardonnay,

The sounds of your swallows drowning the blue bird inside.

Here you are, this giant mirror, pointed convex over your life,

Trying to get the angle in,

The shadow of the Chicago bean and the time you spent there falling

Onto your heels with the labor movement and the woman who would become a casual acquaintance of kb.

Do you see what you look like now?

Greet the dawn crusted streets with gloved hands for it is getting cold out

But greet them, do not sleep through “daydreaming” and “myxomatosis”

But feel it in your gut when you cannot have a meal on time

And when you get off do not go gentle to the bar next door singing songs

Of romance, degradation, and preach what your life might be to your unfocused eyes in the bathroom with the warnings about pregnancy.

You have learned.

Hop on your bike sober and ride home.

You are not so young as to believe your life is a story

If you aren’t writing it. And even then, why cut off your fingers

fOr your liver? You’ve gotten ink stained now and a glass pen across from the window overlooking the 50^th street of cedar avenue to prove it.

Use this. face this. stay with this.

You’ll never see the bottom of the cup if you

Keep looking away.

every day the you who’s eyes are not tired

grows louder.

I can see your heart like linen in front of a flame.