Whiskey Dreams

absorption too slow
I pick up the room
and empty it into myself
and the excess dribbles onto stubble
attempt to wipe it ends with--
a smear of salt and poison,
a raging sea of firewater
threatens to drown me
help me Lord, for I cannot quell it
and at last I sink

scent of cherry blossoms
exotic but familiar
like a lost homeland,
the sea is calmed at last
a soft touch and tone,
a nickname from my childhood,
whispered, both sweet and drawn out,
like honey.

the albatross' cry awakens me
A workshop awaits,
disheveled and hollowed out
now I wander in the land of nod
and a nightmare sets in.
The risen sun is here,
but I missed Lady Dawn.
I phase out
A West African asks us to write on our names.
Not sure why I'm here.

My name is short. It comes from a Poet's surname. It is said quickly, haphazardly, often with a smile. But what is in a name? The essence is not. Once my name was spoken softly, drawn out as a ribbon in the air, and I could see it wrap around me, pulling me to its speaker. But now it is silent. If it is spoke at all it is quick and violent like the sword, spoken through gnashing teeth and furrowed brows. It is spit out onto the ground and stamped upon. My name means black (from blsec). It is like a gangrene of rotting flesh in need of amputation. It is the midnight hour when there is no dawn nor sleep to be had. My name is Blake

ignore a room of people
for six hours
is quite the feat
sketched a woman I found instead
sitting on her own legs
looking aside
one arm resting on leg
the other, the ground
but her torso is missing

a core gone amiss
without heart nor stomach
and I imagine if it was there
that I might smell cherry blossoms again.
my own on fire, knotted and aching
but the outside cool as a cucumber
a smile or laugh every so often,
does the job
so nobody bothers me.
I'm jealous of the woman
for without my core,
maybe I'd forget
these whiskey dreams