Nicholas Alti

Fresh Brewski, Duder

You can’t reverse osmosis now, you soulless 
sentiment of loss, you can’t masquerade my 
oblivion of confusion, you can’t even forget. 

Spooky boo, ghoul fiend, want to slumber party
my little sludge buddy? We can wander back
-wards toward euphoria, collapse in a puddle of 
brackish acid. Tickle each other as we try to
stand back up, but we always fall down, always
liquefy just like and until silence.

You can crush this conversation, you can crush
a palm of grubs, you can crush a bougainvillea 
pink pill, you can crush a future without touch.

No function is fully pooped until I shoulder in,
gagged with a paperweight, open wounds all over,
sporting a rather Spahn Ranch ensemble. 
I cut the music. I scream in the startling language
of actual exorcisms. Nobody makes a sound. 
Yes, excellent. I put on my own music.  

You can crush this fresh brewski, duder, you can
crush any scant savings on bail, you can crush 
cathedrals with the full hymn of your hurting. 

I confess, I’m a part E-Animal: half cyborg,
three-quarters dumpster centipede, endemic
to stratums of critically higher altitudes. Spirit,
who scared you to death, anyway? No biggie,
though, my astral amigo—another data hazard
won’t really my ruined organ mend.