whiskey and cigarettes

Cigarette smoke barrels down my esophagus

in it's own catharsis, diving into my lungs,

while Jim Beam washes a whiskey ocean

across my tounge and hurricanes swim in my skin.

My hairs try to jump from me, standing on end

pulling at their roots to escape like rats from a ship.

Cowards, they should know the drill by now

and stop trying to flee from the racing chills

that speed along the length of my spine and into

my gut. My stomach doesn't run, but that's not

because it is any less afraid. I have trained it like

a Spartan warrior to choke down the fear.

Or maybe I have made it too weak to run.