Nothing that'd grab you by your insignificant throat.

"My iPod keeps playing sad Death Cab songs,"
she said loud and clear from the other side of town.
It was almost shaping up to be one of those nights for both of us
since Jesus isn't much of a conversationalist these days
and slapping him around a little doesn't liven him up
just further guarantees my seat in Hades.

The whiskey swirled around in my mug
reminding me that God created our need for sleep
to promise us that tomorrow is another day.
Most nights I'm the rain on hookers' hairspray.

But tonight was different.
Looking through the hundreds of digital pictures
from last weekend's testosterone-fueled Catskill retreat
revealed that I need to stop being such a hermit
since I have some noteworthy men in my life
who aren't dead authors.
I didn't stop to debate whether or not it counted
as drinking alone if I was surrounded by photographs of friends...
Or maybe I did since I've mentioned it now.

Still, it's lonely on top, or bottom
or wherever you and I think I am, not that it matters.

I'm sitting on a pillow; I've been at this desk for too long again.

I don't want someone to tell me that I haven't done wrong--
I want them to tell me that they understand why.

The ice cube bell curve rages on.