The baton stirs the twist of sharp and flat
Until the sound, the lights, the taste of it all is a whirpool in a glass
Assertive hands bob above the brim manipulating this waxy yellow rind
Until bursts of sweet sour sound break at the mouth of the bay, my bay
Stringing through the lips, then through the ears and the nose
Through the salty crevices between the fingers
Eroding away at the incessant voices that speak to me in tongues
At a volume that soils every synapse
Usually I let my mind sink everything
It’s seasickness. Sorry.
But all at once this deafening triumph and muted blur
Travels down stream, permeates my every pore
And scrapes away at my banks
Until I’m wide and still
Drowning with drunk
Drunk with drowning
