by R. Scott Fallon

i don’t get drunk on yom kippur anymore

when we were all strung up together in white plains, i vomited all over the sequined table spread.

i have not since gone on birthright, nor am I capable of getting a buzz off stolen


from the cabinet

it is
what the archdiocese
would have pumped out by the gallon
out of worcester

everytime I visit my dad on christmas

there is no true faith, just competing, shitty, cut-up, fortified wines

it’s all haraam

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