blessed by past transgressions

we waffle and wait and time bides us

drinking our fill from the waters of slaughter
reading our regrets too deep for our hip waders

the follies of fashion haunt these specters upon which we hit
damning us to an interminable inimitable hell below our own ethics

but we have Tom and maker's mark to wail our sorrows out upon
a stage of our own making, a page we both have taken
ripped out, collated, shredded and forgotten
like last night's phone number ridden beer coaster
like tomorrow's dream, spent and not invested,
deferred yet not despairing

my main manic man struts pride down the sidewalk smoking forevers beneath his lapel
I talk tales tall and pretend towards humility while pocketing my daydreams
unbeknowst to fate and her terrible tunics