Grieving Night

darkness rolls in, the sand’s
shoveled into the shallow grave by
the beach. thrown into the hole a
glass pipe, an 8ball of glass; just for
the trip. a tequila bottle half-buried in
the sand, away from the surf; it’s Jose Cuervo because
fuck the expensive, actually decent shit. 48 hours after
her funeral, I’m drinking Four Roses out of
the bottle while Jose is whispering to me.
it’s fine, you’ll get your time, Jose, I
mumble back, and fire up the glass pipe. the moon’s up, showing its
stupid, putrid green grin and I give it the
finger before chugging the Four Roses. I light the
lighter under the glass pipe, it crackles and I drag.
I crack open the Jose bottle. double dose of craziness,
insanity in a lethal mix; I’m
still alive. can’t help it. even Death sends me
rejection slips. another swig, another drag. and the false
grave doesn’t perform the miracle of reanimation.