As I watch him sleep, striped shirt breathing in the air, legs cramped with poverty feet dug into my cheap couch, his drunken corpse is funny to me.

How I know how he loves these platonic comas.

He moves occasionally. Soft turns and twitches. The magic of Big Pink crystallizes this moment. How I wish I was there.

But I am here. Exploding with my favorite instrument. My wandering and confused dream.

But then he rose with grace and arrogance, stumbling in cross-eyed form.

He’s looking right at me, right down my pupils. No mention of a moment, he throws himself on my linoleum that is soda and Kool-Aid stained.

Falling back into scene, returning from what I thought was a miserable stomach eruption but only resulted in a harmless shit.

He stumbles with feet crossing back to the couch, nestling himself like my infant nephew.

Now. One hour-and-a-half and a few beers later. I realize that the hunk of shit has puked all over my coffee table.

Hardened streams of potato chunks are placed sporadically with some on the Sega Genesis others on work boots.

What a shit hole, fucking mess I will have to clean up around noon.


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