Slam?

It's arpeggiated madness
one pluck at a time
skipping strings for Satan's sake--
a new tattoo idea
just a loan payment away.

Some things are best
with a hangover:
reading Buk and Dos in bed
a rabbit's fur against your flank
the purple-lipped pleas from the previous night
ringing in your pounding temples
after you've flushed the eggplant down
and tried to piece together the words and lines.

All he said was that it's time:
men of words
unite
untie
with a voice that still sends
chills down my spine.

Downing the day's last glass of two-percent
smelling skunk in the kitchen
of a house with four kinds of milk in the fridge
and two-dozen eggs
cups drying on the window sill above the sink
from last night's cocktail party.
You really don't know who your friends are
until you check the couch after they've left.

Ahem.
Amen.
Amengual, her "maiden" name.

Men of words unite, untie.
And it really is a shame
about those pipes of his.