there’s a bar in the kitchen
where i sit alone most evenings
but not tonight
as sundays are for communing with the dead

the hour finds me sharing a scotch
with zevon’s vaporous ghost

he sits beside me strumming his immaculate gibson guitar
singing that his shit’s fucked up

i concur
explaining how i have acquired the sickening habit
of being unable to ignore the truth

in the door walks every bloody sacrifice i’ve carried in offering
to the goddess of being a lousy cunt

the heaviness you feel when your head is resting in your hands
is the weight of every choice you’ve ever made

i’ll never know your love

this will be the last thought
as my coins are handed to the ferryman

this is the price of admission