The Buzz (a work in progress)

There are sounds that move me like a guide through these streets. Sounds that have been called silence, noise and music. To some they are healing, to some they are painful, to me, they are just the sounds that call me.
I’m not sure where I first tasted the sweetness of bourbon whiskey, but I remember how the ice rattled like dice against the empty glass before it was pounded still by the pour against it. There was muttering, a toast I suppose, and then the clanking of my glass meeting someone else’s in agreement to whatever had been said. The buzzing that competed with the whiskey for my attention. The buzzing that trapped others in thankless jobs and marriages, making them sign on dotted lines for things that no man needs but every man wants- bigger cars, bigger houses, bigger tits. I do not want for such things. I ignore the buzz.
What I want is any car, any house and I don’t give a shit about tits, just give me something warm that doesn’t cough or cry when I put my dick in it. That is what I taste in a sip of whiskey. That is why I treat my bottle like my baby, wrapped in blankets of brown bag and held close to my loving bosom, ever ready to kiss and comfort. I do not have a home, with no way to get there and nobody waiting there for me. I have cheap bottles of life attached to the end of each arm and the noises they create push me. Forward, onward, somewhere they push me. I am led without restraint.
Some years ago, I’ve lost count, I would have gladly sat my drink down and shaken your hand. I would have smiled with perfect teeth. I would have had teeth. The buzz was all around me then and I was all about it. We danced in cubicles and boardrooms. We were a regular Fred and Ginger, sashaying through the American dream, the houses, the cars and the tits. And then, just when I bent over to set down my drink and shake your extended hand, it fucked me. The American dream gave it to me good. I coughed and I cried and when the buzz turned away from me I turned away from it.
The sounds now are echoes mostly, of how it was and how I planned it to be. The noises around me, the cars and sirens and shoppers with children. I pay them as much heed as they do me. I walk a straight, albeit wobbly line, and it all dances around me like some cosmic ballet, planets around the sun; but while the planets are full of life, this sun is burnt out, and as far as it being a dance, I refuse to tango and they are reduced to a bunch of fucking idiots. The same fucking idiots that they have kissed babies and asses to become, bending over backward so as not to get the blind siding I got. Smart of ‘em.