we are cold architecture, drawn
by unwitting fingers— meat and bone,
drunk and full of ghosts, warm whiskey
and misguided notions of creation’s absolution.

intoxicated pantomimes, the quadriplegic speaks
and blasphemes to the sky—
nickels in a straw-knit hat
and dime-store memories.

I laugh and fall, laugh and
fall upon absurdity’s imbrue.

- Joseph M. Gant