The annual hangover

You loved all your liars
who went along with you
because that view from heaven
was one you could not refuse.
You gave me back my manuscript
with red ink foaming
the access to your mouth.
You had crossed out every woman’s name
and replaced them with your own.
You filled up my basket with
all that had ever gone wrong;
A ceramic vase for the holocaust
and trash bags for terror plots.
Then you asked the checkout girl
if she would accept my crinkled coupons.
She looked lazily at you
and then adventuresome toward me;
Asking to see my identification,
just to be sure she had not fallen asleep.
I climbed across the counter
and I gave her the proof
that she had only known from diagrams
pinned to bulletin boards.
We rode that rubber conveyor belt
until we were pulled across the scale;
Three dollars and ninety nine cents per pound
for misogamy.
She looked back at you–
and then down to me,
asking if I prefer paper or plastic around my dreams.
Then you took me in your purse
and you brought me to your room—
and you held me in the shadows,
where the light is too dim to read by the moon.
You tried to make out my words anyway—
but after ten minutes you put me down.
You woke up with a pounding headache
and my blue jeans rumpled on the ground.

written on 01/01/2010 by: Matt Kane