Sleeping Bag Whiskey

by Peter Erich

Swigged all the nips from the wild turkey, forgive me obscured illusory and share this sleeping bag. 

What is big and delicious when everything is silent?

Purpose is a complicated camp friend and complication is anxiety for the next telegram. 

Is there no way to enjoy the mailman?

Debated like a pea shaped battery placed into a watch opposing time.  Restless, sweltering bodies with different answers running on acids, positives and negatives and passive, syrupy blood and right now there is no base drum.

Nips stand on my lips, careless ellipsis big and delicious. And at the end of the bottle everything becomes a brass band, the train passes, the ragged animal, indelicate, as everything arrives at once. 

I want static. I want static.