Andrew Riutta

Sober

For six months now, I've been wringing out my brain. And liver. Simple as that. The moments at hand are the moments at hand. Nothing more. And I suppose that ought to be good enough; perhaps as good as it will get, anyway. Used to be I'd get drunk and everything was so alive and multidimensional. Interchangeable. I could dance the same dance listening to Willie, Ravel or Lady Gaga. I'd float in all the cracks with a warm smile, and thank God, booze raised to the stars. Now the days are kind of like eating hard tac. Eating hard tac with bad teeth. But still, there's something to be said for the unclouded virtues things possess. Today, a strawberry smells like a strawberry, and not a woman's saliva. Speaking of love, well, don't ask. If I had a bottle, the crow in the maple tree outside my window would likely have all the answers. But I don't. So it doesn't.

hunting for beach stones
I hit the jackpot
three plain rocks