So alone in this ocean of repercussions
with that droning prosaic sound
wafting on the aroma of cigarettes
as B.B. King sings of his troubles;
now my troubles, I seek to hide away.

Submerging memories and beliefs
at the bottom of a half-drunken glass of bourbon
like a yellow submarine, seems easier in the lyrics,
pelting down on my eardrums like rain,
than that day time drama that unfolded before my eyes.

Though the river of harmony continues to ebb and wane,
the constant assault of anguish
continues to wrack my mind
as if fortified by this tumbler of spirits,
releasing more than it’s meant to suppress.

Growing wearier, whether the liquor finally functioning
or the tapping of my digits on the bar
demanding a torrent of negligence to drain my limited vigor
that the bartender refuses to give me;
the thoughts are all gone now, just in time for the next set.