Some days its the chill in the air
its the syrupy liquid consumed
its the smoke inhaled
the shit shit out
dying on the inside
the testicles the ass
the achy back
the broken down car
the last cigarettes
the change swirling in a cup
its the hope
its the cancer
its the lonesome dust
a field with no farmer
the browned corn stalks
flittering, dead
their bounty, livelihood defeated
its the swirls in the bright sky
tiny creatures and blood vessels in my eyes
today it is the trash
next week is the food
its the shows on television
lines on the radio
bickering people
all drunk on their own ideas
I'm drunk on a floor
a couch
in a bed or in a tent
it doesn't matter where as long as it isn't Afghanistan
its a yellow ribbon
its a purple heart
its time to forgive and forget
to onwardly walk
honorably fall
