You’re on the Internet, Baby.

I spit grease on my hands, hold up empty bars to last call,
Brandish callouses, olive-colored cancers, and oil-thick blood
Because I work hard.
I’m a diver.

It’s mine and I’ll drown it.

I short-change the bar when we get up and out.
And we spelunk
All day
Adequately
For once
For now
On camera for the internet.

She’s coming,
To take me,
To own me,
But she’ll leave when she learns I spit grease

I know I’m killing her –
Repeating
Little
Deaths

Here’s to the hands of a working man.
And cheers to bottomless wells.