Beneath The Haze


Rum lies, breaking the bed,
as the cartwheel of family calls incessantly
for the little guy beneath the large haze.

Wine holds pulsing drumbeats between his skull
to be still, be still, let the quiet
soothe whatever might have occurred.

Accidents of heart, fenders, indiscretion.
Words cursed
that can never be reclaimed.

Delinquent Mai Tais
party in his blood like parasites, waiting
for him to quench them. More.

As the woman made out of milk and cookies
stands outside, outside his haze.
He can barely see her outline.


Judith Pordon