smoke and mirrors.

I am staring at 15 beers lined up, held upright by dying wood in a happy hour trance of smoke, earfulls of women's laughter, click-clacking of plates beyond the drum's circumference (sounds that graze the ear peripherally). This is not where I belong. I belong at home, fingers in between the first and last page of newly discovered book...or holding a pen or caressing a vowel key, then comma, then . a poem. something created, not destroyed, again, another night, wasting away my bank account, lungs, ears, eyes, and creative psyche amongst many strangers and few familiar faces. in '07, i must do better.