Alex Stollis

WATCH OUT. YOU MIGHT GET WHAT YOU’RE AFTER
—”Burning Down the House,” Talking Heads

We drop. The drop is bottom. The drop is the bucket. The drop
is pressure is choke-chained-haloed; cloaked & daggered.

We revel in what locusts leave behind. The drop is the baddest
motherfucker in the room: a sky bled white,

a raven’s grin on the powerline. Our imaginations have nothing
to conjure. We’re loaned to the earth & breathless.

We sleep on eggshells. Valium, Percocet, PBR. We're not wasted.
Call it dreaming in another language.

We float on a sea of honey. Drop breadcrumbs to mark the path
between living large & one final killer hangover.

Molotov-ed out of breath, short poured into a long drink, lips wet
with secrets. We take flight but never leave.

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