I’m an old speckled hen, two Irish mules, and a whole pint deep in oktober’s brassy music and I’m feeling not weepy like pathos, like writing in two notebooks and guessing at love languages. In other words, I’m drunk. Pretending to be a writer, that’s what I am. Reading about physics like I have any exposure. Rotating in a barstool like I won’t have to expel myself at some point. Throbbing. I’m alive, alive, a-looking at my reflection, I need to feed my dogs but I’m drunk. The fog clears, o am I drunk or stuck here, I’ll come back after I feed them, just let me sober up and I’ll be back with my bumper stickers and tattoos, you are a faceful of heartbeats and I make the pain go away only by looking at you. I yelled your name drunk from my floor like I haven’t done myself in for the addictions of the mind, you’re on mine, wander in, I swear you’ll look dashing, you’ll be mine, we’ll dance, hold hands, look into each other’s faces. I trust you, I do, I can’t tell why except that I trust you. I woke up faster I’d died and gave you a flower for the pain you feel without any pleasure, we have all in equal measure, it’s the tuning and the rhythm that make it all. The straw misses my face and I have to find a stall in this stream or I’m bound to burst. I’ll go home when I’m ready, come back for the first of all pleasures, the human in us. Mind over matter is an element of trust.