Bundled in our drug attic, marrón rojo e negro clashed mexican blanket, getting Laah’d out on that TV again, syrup eyez and no expectations. dead flowers in the vase. did you ever look at me like that? doting as summer rain against the window
& simple. Still, the trouble with weed people?
“not even a drug” “not physically
addictive” ,at least, as Facebook, I’d say. Puff*Puff*Pass NuKKa you boring
the truth is a smack fast upon and always the last to see it coming.
lame one empty afternoon with the shocked face and crumpled heart & a child somewhere cries “where were you when the risk to make a love came running to your door? did you never for a minute think within that howling wind was my voice dying for one warm touch?
& always in such a rush to slow the world down to a manageable pace
bury beneath the influence everything that makes one human.
this foolish laugh;
this embarrassing body;
this change of course;
this boring saturday;
this crying over nothing;
this broken trust;
this broken crown;
this balding crown;
this stage freight;
this helpless blush;
this hurts too much;
this first to raise your hand;
this first to raise your fist;
this worried sister;
this direct circuit;
this country heart;
this jealous heart;
this brimming pride;
this fear of dying;
this stone sober fuck
this fear of trying;
this fear of trying again;
this first to fall in love;
this I Remember Everything;
this Say Whats On Your Mind;
this take the pain away. take away the pain. this painstaking way.
And who am I anyhow, standing by
while you burn cigarette holes in the couch, coming down
to sterile sleep and I’m still high,
liquored on sweet lonesome and only poems.
