Looking at my face in a mirror after a binge

Deep, dive in

Past black heads, hairs,

Spots and wrinkles,

Deeper, down behind

The glassy waters of

The eye

Under Mount Rushmore

Nostril tracks,

Behind the teeth somehow

And back, towards the

Brain, mother of all

boisterous angsters

Teaming round,

Shafting catapults

Down the spine, planting

Booby traps till

Good intentions trip, tumbling

Into the gut.