I am filled through a pinhole

I am filled through a pinhole
With booze and with rain.

I am layers upon layers of newsprint,
Gooey and gluey, stuck on this balloon.
This blue plastic supports the weight
Of each front page laid down, each classified, each obituary.

They tell a disjointed tale with snippets from each,
“May 9th 1996, Mud Mountain Conquered by—
Friends Wanted: Call for De—
Taken Too Soon, Remember Your Seatbelt”

As the goop builds up and paper wears thin,
One story is no longer discernible from the next,
I am a sphere of experience,
Everything is written, but nothing can be seen.

But you popped the balloon before I was ready
The pulp was still drying, just about set.
And with your irrational pin, sharp with mistrust.
You let the air out ever so slowly.

Now only a shell I must give into gravity,
Grasping the nearest things to sustain my shape.
The hole left behind is too small to see.
I am difficult to fill, but even harder to drain.

I must wait. The whiskey, the tears, the beer,
The gin and the drizzle
drip out.
I am ready for some paint.