insanity is a harsh critic of the sober
but a kind nurse to men like me
who wear yesterday like a bonnet
and tomorrow like a tutu

it will be three hundreds seconds before
the first shot is fired across my tongue
releasing my mind to feel
nothing – until then, insanity
i hate you.

when the voices are quiet except
for the soft sound of the football, of bourbon
waltzing on the back my tongue,

i think, then, it is fair to ask for the truth.
until then, it is best to beg
for either a quarter
or a lie.

insanity, it seems, offers neither
and therein lies my problem.