Kim Wetter

Derek and I

Below is the first guest post submission by my good friend Derek (see picture to the right):

Delightful.

The rain that’s beating down on the back of my neck
also slices through the orangish mixture
spewed artfully onto the sidewalk.

It’s art. It’s New York City. Duh. Fashion.

Cookies with orange juice probably wasn’t a good idea
for my drunchies, but they tasted good on the way down,
and they gave me something to do while I waited for the L train.

That is, before I scurried back out of the subway station,
thinking I was going to puke. I caught a cab back after that.
I left my umbrella in that cab. Shit.

And yes, “scurry” is the most accurate word to describe
how I exited the subway. I scurried. Jesus.

Did I pee my pants or was the eave dripping water on me while I was sleeping?
Oh yeah, it was the eave. Because that’s when the guy walking his golden retriever
asked if I had a place to go tonight.
“I’m not homeless,” I think I responded.

I’m sassy like a honeybadger now.
But I recall being grateful. Amazed, even. Grateful at this man’s kindness.

My thoughts of the man are interrupted
by the fifth heave of vomit. It’s not much,
but it feels good to know that my stomach is empty.

Finally.

How many people saw me sleeping on the stoop before Cailtin got there?

Oh, Caitlin.

She’s rubbing my back telling me it’s OK.
I need her to tell me that.
I need her encouragement for the
six flights of stairs we’re about to climb.

I might as well climb a mountain.
I wouldn’t know the difference.

Not that I’d remember even if I did.

Fucking New York.

I don’t remember taking my shoes off, but when I open my eyes, I’m gripping the rim of the toilet.
My eyes are open, but I don’t see anything.
I just feel the porcelain. I feel its whiteness.
I can smell the chemicals Cati used to clean it
earlier today.

Fucking thank God she cleaned it earlier today.
Can you imagine? I begin to vomit at the thought.
Nothing comes up.

Everyone loves a dry heave.

Her glittered, ethereal hand descends from the heavens
and opens up to reveal the ambrosia of drunkenness.
Ibuprofen.

Fucking give me three.
Too bad I’m not sure if I can hold down this water.
I spit into the toilet.
I gag myself.
Deepthroating my own pointer finger.
I must look really hot.

I close my eyes and open them. I’m lying on the bed,
spooning a cleaning bucket.

My mouth tastes bad.
How many hours have passed?
Daylight pours in the window just like last night when I…
No.
I can’t think about it or I might vomit again.

I turn over. The night pieces itself back together every
time I cover my eyes to block out the sun.
My jeans feel stiff and uncomfortable.
My shirt smells like mistakes.

I’m never drinking again.
Not once in a million years.
And by years I mean milliseconds.

So long as those milliseconds don’t last past
next Saturday.