Good Morning, Sugar Bowl ~ Thursday, August 6, 2026

First thing, in the morning, I cut a line
in the morning, a razor blade, Franklin
religiously, a novena, nine days
suffer the rosary, mirror supine
taste the sweetness, Walter, my dad is dead

think you know better child, a shot of Glen
hollow within, embrace the creep, displays
in the windows as I pass on the street
now, am I awake or asleep, instead
given nothing matters but delusion

illusory, hit a bump in the road
nothing but confusion, this illusion

this imaginary throne, take a seat
heated as a carseat in wintertime
emissary of the devil, barn owl

millions and millions in the bank, I sank
on the golf course, a hole in one, my crime
rests with the defense in a court of law
normal, this morning routine runs afoul
in the eyes of observers, still I drank
needlessly, to numb my body of pain
given I scuttle with my ragged claw

I drink as a dictum, get drunk and high

cupidity with a bottle of gin
understand, dear reader, how much it pays
to stay alive, healthy, and not decline

asinine, my favorite word, no more

leave me to my dolor, the pale blue sky
inebriated from the night before
night creeps into morning inside my brain
each time I cut a line, just so insane

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