The Liquor Machine
"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."
-Bat Country, Avenged Sevenfold
There is a window nestled
between her ribs, first peek in blurry,
second revealing the red silhouette of a man.
He has beer bottle fists and chimney sweep lungs:
a short term machine.
The liver is an engine, pump-pumping, while
his smokestack trachea billows expletives
untruths, and sometimes half-digested food.
He has a one-track assembly line mind, a
linear thought process:
me, me, me.
Much like a baby he nurses from a bottle,
sleeps at odd hours,
and cannot master complete use of the toilet.
When he vomits, though, there is no one to pat his back.
There are sepia flickers like a vintage projector
shivering like butterfly wings on the pinks of her eyelids
He comes home one night, one of the few,
and she crawls up to him like
a pink mouse -eyes still shut-
rooting around for its mother
in the coils of a snake.
The next morning she wakes up
with vomit tangled in her hair like tinsel,
her small body still snuggled against his booze-hot skin:
Fin. Projector coughs, curtains close.
She remembers how he always left
his pants in the hallway,
the breadcrumbs to his German child of folklore.
They always preceded his body by a few feet;
sometimes one pant leg still looped
around a shoe-less foot. In the pockets
of his discarded jeans jingled coins,
which were like lost treasure to her,
unknowing of her father's trade:
Jackson, Hamilton, and Lincoln
for Jim, Jack, and Jose.