Talking To The Busy Gods At 10: 19 Pm Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The gods must be
On their seats
Drinking wine
Bourbon
Cabernet Souvignon
And there
They would relish
Upon different
Kinds of
Godly intoxications.

What luck, fellow.
It’s 10: 19 in the evening
And the clocks tell
The evening tragedies
Yet only to remind
Me
That a soul
Needs another soul
To be whole
And if not
Then these ghastly hollows
Will forever be damned
Into oblivion.

I am honest about
A lot of things.
Force-feeding at morning,
Counting crystal shards
Of tears during the night
Where the moon
Is the size of my turbulence.
Pouring my blood
Onto shabby papers,
Passing through university halls
With the only
Constant hunger
To make it throughout
The day with no one
But my own unfettered
Body.

In my eyes
The trees burned,
The stars cascaded
Onto deep forests,
The moon sank
In the ashen background.

I rest my case
Upon the bed
That portrayed
A catastrophe -

To wake up and think
That I’d never make it
Out alive today.
Sometimes, I laugh at these
Minute ramblings
Often times
I let them
Take all of me.

It was just
Not my time
But until when
Am I going
To wait?