Navigating a playlist in sobriety

quick dirty sloppy writing

Listening to John Prine

Singing about when he gets to heaven

And your eyes are heavy

And your brain is wrapped in cotton balls

The air conditioner is dehumidifying the air

New flesh wounds bleed, forgotten

And even though you had a cigarette

But ten minutes ago

You want to go go go

And have one more

And you miss the ability

To wash away your hunger

With a rye and water, and a bit of ice

And Sinead O’Connor comes on

She is singing about being taken

To church

And it makes you wonder,

How such an iconoclastic rebel

Still fell sway to the notion of creation

Instead of the domain of worms

And the outstretched network of the mycelium

Mycelium that you would happily

Commune with, if only to relieve yourself

Of the ache that haunts each moment

That you keep at bay

With games of solitaire

And British television shows

And the magic bullet that you hide

In your proverbial back pocket

When did fun come on?

Their epic song construction

That you wish would possess you

Make you

Fall to your knees with a scream

That rips your throat

As you wail into the fetal position

Feeling safe and home

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