For Panda

I laugh when my balls hurt. I laugh after I finish my 3rd martini. I laugh when I wake up, not dead. Somehow I avoided the bullet, the rope, the knife. I laugh when I am Moe and slip on the ghost of a banana peel and throw my back out and crawl toward another drink. I am laughing at myself. I see myself through the eye of a surveillance camera. I am drunk, retarded and reaching for a book. I am reaching for an answer, a burrito, and at clouds. Sun, don't shine on me today. Sky sheets.
I laugh at myself, I have to. No ego. I am asshole supreme.
Yeah. That's it. I put a bucket on my head and hail taxis and wait to get hit by one. I get hit. Someone decides to call the morgue. I get picked up by a hearse. Cut out the middle man. Don't need the hospital. Insurance doesn't cover cremation. Pour my ashes into a half empty bottle of whiskey and use it as target practice.
Three assholes walk into a bar and the bartender pours me into glasses from a bottle he found near the sewer. I reform, break out of the glass and grow. Fuck. I am a man again. Regeneration.
Give me a bottle with a neck wide enough that I can dive back in.
January is dead.