YOUNG

i was young.
i slept
on benches,
awakened
by a son-
of-a-bitch,
@ three am,
full black-
out.
my
cigarette spills
ashes on asphalt,
while street
lights dance in
front of my half-
closed
eyes.
stumbling,
scraping
my face and
bloodying knees,
reeking of
death and
dry gin,
i make it.
my room,
looking like
hunter thompson
on a
five day-
bender.
with gravity shifting under
my toes
he asks me,
am i drinking?
fuckin' right.