The yarn came promptly.
When I started
to use one skein,
I began to pull out
pieces of yarn about
8-10 inches in length.
About half of the skein
was made up
of these short strands.
The next couple of skeins were OK,
but the third
had broken strands
about every 10 feet.

A bit frustrating
to say the least.

1.

do Drugs because without Drugs
there is no inspiration
without inspiration
there is no Drugs

this is all said with wide distant looks
with swinging wrists
fingers comb the hair
fingers pick at the skin

without Drugs
there is no poetry

no music
no ambition
no sleep

there is no awkwardly standing there
as he tells you,

little bee, joust teen mean huts

there is no biased observer
watching the Drugged tumble
like laundry
down stairs.

surely this can’t be a good idea

don’t try to leave
don’t be awkward

surely

2.

do Drugs because you will see
finally see!
things no one else could ever see

so swallow that joint
eat that pill
smoke those shrooms,
but for the love of GOD!
not by themselves
place them strategically
in a peanut butter sandwich
like stars in a constellation

you will know better next time
he tells you to smoke shrooms

you will feel your bare feet
but you’re wearing socks!
you will feel like you’re crying
but there aren’t any tears!
you will see your curtains take the shape of your mother
folding her arms
looking down at you
wearing a dress
that isn’t her color
or her size
or her style
or even her at all

finally you will see these things
that you were never able to see before

question the experience
and he will sigh
with sighs of such size
that say you just don’t understand

3.

do Drugs because you will realize

Alex Grey paintings
in that pin-up calendar
will mean so much more

which painting is brightly looming over your birth month?
oh, so, the one that looks quite good
where the subject’s skin is transparent
revealing muscles and veins and organs
a stock buddhist symbol glowing on their forehead
their mouth agape
a misty sort of energy
radiating from their body
swallowed by neon

what a coincidence

mine, too

he’s a Grey-t artist, isn’t he?
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

4.

do Drugs because
there will be a moment
when that cartooned weasel
with his too-appropriate leather jacket
and lollipop stick ***** from a snaggled lip
and Nancy Reagan
her wild hair
her eyes that seem to be sinking inward
will seem like the same person

this is just your guilt
your incessant questioning
of what is right
and what is rite

your wanting to just say no
and to just do it
resting in the same swaying sweaty hammock

your waning spirit to overthink

and he will just look at you
as though no one feels
the way you do

you will never understand

5.

do Drugs because you must understand
because you’ve always understood
because you’ve always been understanding

intangible ideas will whisper vaguely at you
that you thought you knew enough about

you just aren’t feeling the love like we are
you just aren’t seeing the universe like we are
you just aren’t feeling the energy like we are
you just aren’t seeing the beauty of things like we are

love universe energy beauty
these things are simple
when gruffly whispered
over a slice of space cake

this space cake is out of this world!
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

6.

do Drugs because
you will have the perfect disorder
for your flaws

flaw and disorder

I’m out of it because
I might of inhaled a little
too much

I’m thankless because
of a pill I should not have
taken

I’m jittery because
I swallowed a couple
extra

I’m sleepy because
I would rather feel this way than look
at you

I fell down the stairs
because it’s Cinco de Mayo
and I can’t find my grinder
and I’m surprised that you’re sober
and I can’t feel my shoulder
and I’m surprised you’re not older

I swear I’m not always like this

But tonight I decide to take the back way
with my single bag of groceries buckled in
for dear life with a white receipt fluttering
from between the battlement of butter and bread.

Tonight, the evening will swallow the sun like a pill
without water, as the late night trains sleepwalk through
the city humming, pondering the unanswered question—
ummmmmmmm, umm, umm, umm, ummmmmmmm—

and the mixture of cloud, locomotion, and sky
will remind me of the cannons and the rifles
and the smoke that bounced back and forth, and I couldn’t
have been more sure that someone was going to die out there

on San Jacinto Day

And eventually I will turn within this forest of street—
Hickory, Elm, Oak, Maple, Spruce, Pecan, Cedar—
to see the red capitals of my reflection, crucified
upon a metal grid for every fatigued citizen to see:

MORRISON'S
CORN KITS

with a light on top that pulses and breathes.
And all I can do is picture myself inside, working along
the assembly lines ******* slip-resistant shoes
onto the ankles of Mexican pubescents,

or painting old men’s faces with sweat,
or filling the bags under teachers’ eyes,
or doodling veins on the legs of ladies who
stand standing to stand, and stand all day, they stand.




And I’ll remember how my crying sister screamed
at every loud thing she heard, and how my
mom was like a parrot on her shoulder saying
‘It’s not real, honey. Honey, it’s not real.’

And I’ll watch how the smoke that endlessly vomits
from the stacks wearing the sky like a wig
distorts the fanned out walls like fun-house mirrors,
and dissipates into the night like a long, drawn out, exhale.

We are the fleshy pit of a wooden fruit that remains lodged
inside the esophagus of a nameless office building,
too historic for corporate enzymes to break down,
too fibrous for second grade impatients to digest.

Pass me your torch—I’m getting blackened today.

Remember when we took our undressed crayons
and grazed them across white paper
over the embossed plaque outside
and the story of this place
spelled out before our very eyes?
And our very eyes, how they widened.
Yes, you do.
Yours was red, and mine was blue.

Remember when you spelled SALSA wrong at the spelling bee,
and the whole cafetorium began to hiss and judge
as the judge bellowed the L-est L ever to be L-ed,
and your ankles were too rusted from embarrassment to get away,
and away you went,
and I called you Mr. Sasla for weeks?
Of course you do.
You were ten, and I was, too.

How after that we ran away like bandits to this place on South Main,
and we picked and we plucked at the locks,
and scratched away at the ashy continents on the walls,
etching oaken paintings of our names married to profanities
even though we didn’t know the meanings
that made them so profane?
I know you do.
You wrote ****—I wrote *******.

And that time when you tried to kiss me
in the corner by the condemned yellow jacket nests
that sagged like hard candy on the splintered walls,
but your empty lips tumbled into the tentacles of a cobweb,
and the moment snuck away
with the stagnant smell of mesquite and adolescence?
Ha! Look at you!
You were laughing—I was, too.

And remember when you got your braces off
and I just about cried because I hadn’t seen your teeth
in days—in weeks?—in months?—in years?—
and through the snaggled gate of your cuspid
and incisor that no amount of metal would ever fix,
the medicated steam slipped, and spilled like milk?
That was last June.
We sat right here, where were you?

And that night when the fugue of sirens tugged at our ears
and we frantically clogged the seams
where the light seeped through with our socks
and our shirts, try try trying to keep the haze from sneaking out—
only to find it wasn’t us they were after, it was the
bank robber next door—and we swore to never come here again?
Our faces changed, too.
Yours was red, and mine was blue.

Yet, our torch melts to ash, and we become blazed as one.

We are here, reclined against rusty limestone as smoke
forms above our skulls like question marks, as red rivers
meander closer to our pupils, as the taste of our memory becomes
too salty to swallow, yet too sweet not to taste just one more time.