The saluting recluse

there’s at least one drop
at the bottom of every bottle.
enough for a mild shot
to inflame a lifeless tongue.
lessening the light from
an already dull bulb,
this solitary shot
dissolves company,
for there had been none.
relish the quality of each drop,
before their departure,
to waste.

Playing with myself.

i did it again.
i can’t help it.
i’m with myself,
i had to do it.
it’s something i’ve developed.
i tried to stop,
but i can’t.
i just have to accept,
i play with myself.
my extended hand,
it’s motion,
deters an others grasp.
hey, i washed and
i was courteous about it,
why the apprehension?
oh, maybe i wasn’t clear.
but how can i be
when i’m solid.