she says she hates it when i drunk,
but i don't see why;
i can't remember why any of my
problems are bad so bad when that
st-ready stream of alcohol touches my
lips and throat to the tube heading down
my stomach - i'm serious, i don't know what's
all the fuss about or
     worry need at all.

the problems, they stack themselves
up like domino pieces, like dominos
waiting for you or me or youbody
walking along to flick, knock one of them
all down to laugh and see that chain
    reaction all start to pick up,
and i don't like that then, what when that
    begins to happen.
but, golly gee, the
     liquor starts to slide, why
problems seem as silly as Sunday comics
and i just laugh and laugh and laugh,
usually in my head. shhhhh! i can't

make no noise with her sleeping.
gotta stay quiet and still and very still,
keep all this extra knowledge to
myself; no one wants a blabber mouth,
so i stay extra quiet and say not a peep.

    get to keep everything stay
        more wonderful now,
and the problems, they go zi-pe-dee-da-da
away when the rum hits my tummy -
haw! sounds so fruity!
                 gut! gullet!

she though, does not need knowing
knowledge of no nothing i say,
using either liquor or melatonin to
    stay my male tone in
         top tip shape when i break,
apply brake to awake,
   tapping my forehead; sleep, eventual-
           ly
     real    truth-ly, she need not
to know, just fall asleep shall be,
   me, waiting.

another to feel good;
    feel divine, poetry makes sense,
McGrath is a genius and not an
overpaid teacher and Whitman is
        actually interesting for once;
the Koreans stay beautiful people,
craving for some kimchi and
poetry makes sense again; let's have
a moment of silence for the cicada,
the most beautiful word in the English
language next to 'sirens' and 'tea':

[silence]

"she does not know of the cicadas," i
mutter into the still night.
"she does not know of the cicadas," i
repeat, satisfied for satisfaction.
"she does not, does not know
of the niceness of the cicadas."