One Shot More

All our words, like the shirt
on my back, are secondhand;
much too much discourse on that which was once
instinctual.

So there have been others
before me.
Others more desperate than
I.
Others who I may not even recognize
as my brothers.

But give me a chance to prove
that it’s all hereditary;
old beer-bottles lined up like
bowling pins; the photographs,
all the photographs
of blue, fat-lipped faces;
even happiness, that elusive whore,
out of most of our
price ranges.

Ignorance is bliss,
or is it just
that we are damn good liars?

It seems to me that, by some strange
and tragic need,
we remain faithful
to our past
and, throwing up our arms,
we place our bets on
words already uttered

combinations previously
attempted

while the clock
closes in
on yet another
midnight

like the wall
just past your shoulder
devouring
its shadow.