Hexed

Your father
had it;
your grandfather
had it;
his father
did, too:
drinking cold beer
out at
the bar
until 3 a.m.
You wake up
with a hangover
and wonder
how you
got home.
Mark E. Smith
had it,
so did
Bukowski.
And the alcohol
flows and flows
into
your stomach
and your mind
races
like a locomotive
heading down
the track.
You order
another beer
and begin to talk
to a
beautiful woman.
Nothing
comes out of
your mouth
but mumbled
gibberish.
You go home,
sleep it off
and wake up
with a dull pain
in your head.
You reach
for a cigarette.
You try to
comprehend
how this all
even began,
but you'll do it
again tonight,
and again
the night after that,
into infinity,
forever and ever,
amen.