"I'm Drunghkkhuh," (the "gh" ain't silent) and scraps of spit in the eyes comfort cornea conversations rather than blur indecision vision. Noses. A baseball bat bruhah distance. Eyes. Intently focused on nothing through the clear glass head in front. Corneas talking around dilated pupils in gallons of repressed (or conveniently forgotten) tears, Like hydroelectric Nature seals. Words mean SHIT!-- But eyes communicate. "I'm Drunghkkhuh!" It is very loud. And can be heard for several centuries (and since time began for that matter.) Years of adaptation, Years of restucturing, Years of realignment, of redesign, of repossession, of lost meaning. New existence. Years of untellable sadness like a murder/suicide caused by a homophobic father's "inadequacy." Years of untellable sadness like suicides. Life taken from oneself like drinks of whiskey. Euphoria on Eucharist: The blood-red wine of Christ. The blood red wine of Jesus Christ (Cohen). The blood red wine of Jesus Christ (Cohen) from New York City who was not really a carpenter but a money lender like Shylock. Condemned to do it, and money rich because of it. (Now money is "everything".) This blood-red wine liquid cash (in a bottle or a blue can) drank at intervals sporadic like solid sodium in simple 3-atom water.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this after another drunken night in an Alaskan bar watching
two drunken Eskimos talking to each other for a long time
using few words and their eyes with their faces and inch or
two apart.
Birth sign: Not entered
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