Vodka Prayers (Poem)

There is a thin line between stupid and me.

The hymnals vodkha sings to my bloodstream.

The sound like Sunday, it was beautiful.

…I wish I could be purified like boiling water. I’ve been burned over and over. Baptism over tea sounds fine to me.

My want for what must be understood is as clear and speaks

like the outline of a dead body in the crime scene

and each word i speak tastes like leftovers.

Should I spew something new or old words that have always kept me.





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