Blur

Each drink is a rung on a sweat-slippery ladder,

hands slick and streaked with the dirt

from the shoe soles of all those who have

attempted this climb towards

the absolute nothingness

that is so alluring. 

At the top we all cease to exist,

we hand in consciousness for oblivion;

it is finally possible to dissolve

into the cracks of social interaction,

to slip between the crease

of sweaty sofa cushions.

There is such expansive freedom

in evaporating into the pungent fumes

of an uncorked bottle of liquor,

in breaking apart and interlocking

with every minute facet of the evening.

Allowing the world to spin

at such high velocities

that memories dissipate,

that discomfort is dislodged,

that the sense of self itself disappears

and is replaced by a raw creature of positive emotion

ready to embrace the entire city.