day ONE HUNDRED and NINE

i am slow with words

in the burrows of the night
i am slow with words

behind the curtain

of my eyes my ink

runs down down
the steps of your basement

beneath the basement
the floor

the foundation
the hard rock

the soft earth

the edges of your perfect
lips and your perfect chin

past the people who have
passed rock bottom

and the dead things

i have buried myself alive
i cannot live like this

i cannot write these poems
in the cacophony of my mind

i am slow with words
behind the curtain of my heart

my sanity runs down down

the wolf next to me
has teeth that resemble a bank

and the teller's fangs
and the sound of coin machines

spinning coins

when the bar is empty
and the bottle's closed

when the great horned sky
bull gores you in the side with light

beneath your basement
the foundation

the hard rock
the soft earth

the round
of your perfect cheeks

and the people who have

passed rock bottom

i cannot stay in these moments
i cannot write these poems

i am slow with words
i have buried myself alive

so when you fall again
i'll already be here to rescue you


--Paul Koniecki