the last beer is sometimes the worst, when midnight vultures swoop low overhead;
there is no place left to go.
the week’s fight has been fought, and you reach for something useful during the lull between rounds.
tribes of fools roll westward on the boulevard, also reaching for something:
the shit flows steadily through the swollen sewers beneath, and the world spins in slobber and ash, while you play and poke at a madness that is uninterested in games.
strange shadows on the walls and the overwhelming immensity of everything are the only company at this hour.
you struggle to make sense of matters absent of sense, sucking away at the bottle, straining to hear the delicate music of moonlight, as many more lives, more or less important than yours, also hang threadbare on worn nooses through the streets
and living rooms everywhere…
and outside, car tires screech, a horn honks, someone yells
and a bored moth flutters into the murky blackness