skeletons in january
Rain pounds the earth into a deep grey submission. I am drunk and safe in the abandoned apartments overlooking Portola. Everything in my life is collapsing but falling slower than the dust. My neighbors and I dress in rags and preserve our hunting rifles in silver dreams of duct tape. We all rise early to receive glassfuls of chemicals poured from an elderly woman's still. We drink to our alcoholism. We all go down to the beach and search for the bones of children washed ashore.