From the backseat I draw in the cherry spark.
The smoldering ember is like a blood clot
trickling through the joint similar to a blood channel.
Crackling gently the paper incinerates backwards.
Leaning back, lazy lungs breathe and revel in the scent of recreation.
Musical frequencies pulse through the skeletal struts of Dj’s car.
Rhythm and rhymes nestle close to the curve of my spine;
the bass sinking in deep into the folds of my clothes.
Blue brushed lighting flows through the windows in slants.
For an instant I find myself in rumination quickly leading to ruination.
Cows in the distance low to us, intrigued, pulling me back.
Holding fast I overcome the air restriction.
Gathering the smoke into my mouth I shape my lips and blow.
Hazy rings begin to slowly emerge from my mouth.
Taking aim I direct the loops over the back of Bryce’s head.
It gives the distinct impression of a halo
as the rings inhale and expand before disappearing
like an ethereal specter into his dark hair.

What is it with coffee?
It’s found in all areas of trauma.
The hospital, AA meetings, rehab centers, and police stations.
I suppose the black familiar taste is meant to numb the tongue and mind.
Sleepy eyes blink slowly over rising steam.
The dark puddles beneath their eyes
drips and drops into the black coffee.
The two elements commingle and understand the other.
Red rimmed and swearing irises glare hopelessly at plain Jane walls.
The waiting game is played in those spaces.
Why offer a stimulant to the wound gears of anxious relations then?
Coffee is a fix-it-all in these areas of trauma.
It’s the unspoken comfort everyone clings to
with slick palms and quivering fingers.
When the sinking suspicions of doubt drops people go for coffee.
What exactly is it with coffee?

There are many things I wish to forget.
Specific past events already set,
irrevocably in the cement of memory.
An everlasting impression of stupidity.
I dog these thoughts through twists and turns.
Never stopping to reflect and learn.
These days blur.
These days grind.
How am I supposed to find the time,
to turn back the clock,
straight to the beginning.
To a place before corruption and all this sinning.
I have apologizes to say.
Amends that must be made.
But time led me astray.
And refused a soul that could’ve been saved.
The soles of my feet are tired.
Electrical short circuits is how I’m wired.
My head is full of riddles.
A torment of what if’s and little,
bits of shrapnel.
My stomach is a pit of regret.
That is why I want to forget.

Two years ago I lost 30% of my GIRL.
A man had robbed me of it in his room.
We struggled against each other on the bed.
But he was 100% MALE.
And I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
I still remember the feeling of him
scraping against my insides.
Scooping out chunks of GIRL.
He must’ve knocked some screws loose too.
Because not long after I became mad.
Both outraged and crazed.
The madness seeped into my psyche.
Infected the marrow in my bones.
Before I knew it I was
70% girl and 30% mad.
100% human in total.

The most magical thing to happen to me
was when my mind took a break from reality
and got too lost in a fantastical fantasy.
When your brain has as many fractures
as mine it’s really only a matter of time
before your cheese slides off your *******.
I was the Prophet of God.
And my declaration of the coming apocalypse
ruined any semblance of credibility I might’ve had.
Paranoia kept my mouth shut about the happenings in my head.
I couldn’t trust anyone with my skewed truth.
They would’ve only diluted my message.
When you go crazy your fantasy feels like reality.
I had all the answers, or so I thought.
So I took down names, initials
of the people I wanted to save.
I prepared myself for the violence and
the responsibility of taking care of my people.
And I prayed probably more than I ever had in my life.
Because I was the Prophet of God.