It’s a good night to get drunk and go out driving.
The roads are as slippery as whisky,
and street snow swishes us in dry ice,
configurations out of wind,
obscuring the sidewalks you will drive over,
incoherent and out of it.
It’s a good night to test the substance,
to forward the Poe-like abrasions of spirit
on nights such as this. It seems proper
to chant, to mix the suicide
with the soup ladle, limber up
the dark side of all right.
Lean on depression as if it were cashmere.
Live out the good lie you bend over.
On such nights remember the slick howl
of knowledge coming from the beam-cone
headlight in snowdust dropping through car mess.
Like terror, a night such
as this asks for random insult, the wrong-headed
beer swill. It’s good to get going
on something that at last might leave
that dull aftertaste of staying alive.