on new year’s day my friend says that ‘a blackout is like walking in your front door and realizing you’ve been living in your refrigerator’.
sometimes you wake up sometimes you don’t
he says. sometimes you wake up to a sun with rays
so strong they nudge you into a swimming pool.
the next time you wake up you realize there’s no water in the swimming pool, the swimming pool isn’t a swimming pool
it’s a cage of hungry beavers.
wake up once more and the cage is actually your head and you’re not in it-
you are looking at yourself in a bleeding mirror that is in fact the top of a palm tree that has been struck by lightning and all you see is a pack of little beavers steamrolling over your torso, wagging their ridiculously fluffy tails like hankerchiefs waving goodbye, like some important dam someplace broke down and now they’re on the loose, there’s nothing you can do about it-
your eyes are sewn. you’re breathing without tubes now-
(and did i mention the beavers are all armed and angry because yesterday marked the last night of mating season – so all the beavers castrated themselves together at midnight at the threat of captivity,
how shotgun shells dangle above your head in the half-dark, waiting for you to just give them one reason,
‘just one reason we swear to god–‘)
Hangover part II.
wake up and the top of the palm tree is compost, you are whatever fertilizer is made of.
so you wake up once more and resolve to be more zen, there is no such thing as self or a compost to hurl it into. you are the opposite of personification. you are the personification of innocence.
you are a snow-flake descending on to a giant lake the size of michigan where there is one lilypad- and it’s nowhere in sight. and this is the opposite of falling in love-
(you only want to fuck the whole world, which isn’t a lake at all but an aquarium surrounded by glass and you’re headed straight for it.)
then you wake up the day after that to realize you aren’t a snowflake at all, but the top of a helicopter, sliced its own terrible machinery beneath it while you were asleep or were somebody else and, let me tell you, the spectacle it made – a crash-landing on a lilypad that turned out to be a trap for a bullfrog- it sank three stories underground the shadow of atlantis the moon’s dungeon holding croaking frogs on their backs and nothing else. picture alexander dumas as a bullfrog, the slimiest of insects, and go to sleep.
Hangover part III.
wake up and think you’re a bullfrog.
the week after that you wake up and aren’t sure if you’re talking to your friend if your friend is yourself, and nevertheless you both agree, all either of you can remember from last night is waiting for the Grand Master to arrive for tea and a game of chess when all of a sudden a bandit charged in the room, blew your chess board away with a shotgun.
my friend says,
‘a blackout’s like waking up and feeling like you’re falling
asleep – so that you can’t say with any degree of certainty if it actually happened’.
‘…it’s like losing a game of chess to a dinosaur.’
‘…it’s like, it’s like…what?
it’s having children as a joke.’
i don’t drink, my friend. so i take your word for it.
apparently, waking up sober is the easiest thing I’ll do all year.