I was stuck
there's nothing else to say.
I was stuck on the corner of Innes and Main
walking to Expressions, the only smoke shop
where high times wasn't ready to
come out of the closet,
where Hustler was always
6 months old,
where you had to call a bong a water pipe
because the cops came in too often.
I was thinking of the meth trailers
20 minutes out by the lake
and how when I was young they all seemed like
weather factories - heavy cloud but no rain
*sniff sniff
something's on the oven.
it's a world of difference
on Innes and Main.
bankers, business owners,
and old folks walk by with a
look in their eye that says "you're
exactly like you're t-shirt -- secondhand."
here I am secondhand.
here I don't have a name, just a presumption.
here I am nothing.
nothing good.
I kept walking.
I started thinking about my dad --
the first time we got high
together was on xmas day. I was 20,
he was weary and his roommate ALWAYS
had bud. here's the skinny:
we'd get stoned, watch crappy movies,
he'd argue about how good they were
and I'd never quit laughing.
then the come down.
he'd start in about what a huge mistake
he's made of his life.
and he'd count his past regrets
on his fingers like he was learning
addition and it took the strength of all of my bones
not to grab him by the shoulders
and yell "DAD.
QUIT BEING SENTIMENTAL."
and I swore I'd never be sentimental
and I'm not sentimental.
I just know where I'm going.
but when memory's teeth breaks skin
like plaster,
when fresh marks color blood
over old wounds,
when you can't find home anywhere
but in a blunt or a bottle,
it doesn't matter where
you're going.