Drying Out

Dry Drunk as a metaphor. Clinging to the sources of our needs, living familiar only to wanting. Possessing anything becomes alien. Possession is left nine tenths of the laws that apply to those other folks-- them remaining of society. What really can't be unfortunate.

Dry Drunk as a metaphor. It wasn't until recent that I really cornered the concept. Archie Bunkers, men afraid of tomorrow. Living and dying, afraid of tomorrow. Old dead Uncle Wallace will tell you straight, all the things we leave behind are covered with the claw marks of our trying to keep hold.

Dry Drunk, that's an idea. We can change the behavior by will alone, but leave the source flowing same as it ever was. The source the same. Need is a pistol, sure thing. Same as it ever was, cold rifle grease lipstick kisses dotting the nape to the neck. A need to speak, needs to be heard, needs to possess.

It's fear. That dry drunk. That cyclical behavior and repeat to history. Those familiar glass cups, a familiar fight. I stood at Kelly's square the other night, trying to talk down one set of fists. But too bad, there are others. His nose was broken against the car window and the blood flattened out like a clown around his lips. Ollie was an ass and did something to deserve it. But we all watched from the corner in the rain, as he screamed and swore through his broken nose. Like a gargle. He knelt down in the middle of the street and washed off the blood from a puddle against the curb. That was beautiful to see, like Jesus doing feet. Tiffany said he deserved to die, with the conviction of a Pentecostal snake whisperer. I'm not sure if that were true or if she was autistic. She was autistic.
Who can be sure, Ollie was mostly guilty of smuggling gin in his pockets.

The Romans said, half our problems are sourced in mistaking one cause for things built of many.
 Maybe we aren't nearly so good as the take we operate from. Maybe that's fine. Cutting faces into the hill clay with safety razors-- a night is a thing like that. It's neither a straight line, nor is it a cycle. Maybe just a single cut that tends to stumble. But either way, there is one time to it and it's easy to knead out the same possessions rather than stake down those fears of tomorrow.

Dry Drunk, Alright.