drunk with the roommate
i am capping my tip to a wonderful
inebriation of an evening
boneyards of beer bottles
we are drowning
in beerspit and the
percussive
reactionary ripples of
thick blood
and heavy hands

we fight in slow motion

we renew our vows of friendship
underneath the two a.m. lights of
the microwave and we click
together glass as we clash into
an actual fucking
friendship.

a friendship that sails
on clouds
of memories and loyalty
as we fight
consciousness
for the majority of our lives
but especially
tonight.

underneath the green glow
of David Fincher’s
Fight Club
we are men and
we are sealed by the blood that
we draw from
each other’s mouths
through friendly fists and
this
this is brotherhood
between the aftermath of
strangers
as we tip the glass bottoms of
our beers
to our father
the ceiling fan
in the
hot
fucking
summer.

we celebrate each other
and the words that form
safe voyage as we pass through
the marina gauntlet
of brotherly love into treacherous waters
where we battle the krakens of
whatever;

drink.

drain to the chains of
synched-up heartbeats
like
honest drum circles.

drink to high times
and higher
blood alcohol content.

drink to sobering up
to find
that we
drank not
to find
our fraternity but
to celebrate the fraternity
we continue to have when
the well dries up
and the rent check is barely
paid but still
we find money
in the cracks of the couches
to drink
and to clack bottles together
to brothers
born in different states.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “EDWARD HOPPER”