Sometimes it’s something, as
Simple and clean, tapping my
***** hat forwards, and
Kicking my back heel against
The wall.
Sometimes it’s the dank cavern
Of a Dodge’s backseat.
The frozen entrance to the
Diseased freeway, breathing words
Of tragedy and paranoia.
But, sometimes, it’s
The painted landscape of a
Beach, that hung in the
Girl’s TV room, Lodged in place.
I contact my mind’s
Travel agent, to find it, and
Wearing Ricky’s sweatshirt I
Stare at the open water.
Mindful of sharks,
And the smell of ***,
Or sometimes, Svedka.
Or I’ll stare into Sam’s eyes,
Wishing instead to be
Spying the bottom of
Jacky’s bottle.
Or Mary’s bowl.
And when my *** hits the ground,
I’ll look up, this time,
And just like last time, the
Trees will melt. Dripping like
Engine sludge, onto a pavement.
Behind the pool of
Vaporized reality, walls of
Fire rise, so I’ll sit
Back a bit.
But sometimes, it is too much.
And I’m down on my
****** kneecaps,
Appealing to the apparitions.
Begging for a
Box of wine.
Even after you've been stuck, somewhere, and get out...
Ricky was the kid in the bed next to me.
I hate sleeping with other people around.
