We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.

Captivating hazel eyes, smooth light brown skin
Beautiful girl, short curly hair and a figure too thin
Classy style, a contagious smile, an annoying drunk, a sometimey friend

Full of talent, lacks self control, a troubled soul lost within

Alienated by sisters, cherished by only brother
Intoxicating to her married lover, Pops pills with her mother,
She and I can't stand each other,
but understand one another

Something not right with her desire to conversate every night
Hearing her voice daily with no vision of her in sight
Something not right with her desire to no longer fight
And us now becoming tight

Whereabouts unknown, eerie quiet background convinces me she's all alone
She is holding a secret, I can tell it in the pauses as she talks to me on the phone
She's silently crying I can sense it in her tone
I dismissed it as a sober experience she wants to get through on her own

Six months later she surfaces looking like a different lady
The sudden curvy figure, suspicious behavior convinces me she's done had a baby
When asked, her reply was "No!" then changed to maybe
Rumors confirmed that the whole disappearing act was very shady and she did indeed have a baby

Never could figure out why the secret since she was 25 years old,
But where did the baby go, No one seems to know,
Another secret she isn't letting go on why no baby to show
Why she gave birth on the down low, No one will ever know

Everyone moved on, believing that is one thing she will take to her grave
She moved on back to the wine, Vicodins and Xanaxes she craved
Back with a vengeance to the rude way she used to behaved
Which I easily forgave because adopting out your baby is depressing and very brave

Again, she stops coming around
I wait for her calls and not a sound
People are asking about her, but she is nowhere to be found
I knew she was on a rebound, but still, she calls when she's feeling down

Three days later, there she was right at home
On the floor naked with her rigor mortis hand in the air reaching for the telephone
Blood dried on her mouth and nose, and left to die all alone
Dead, holding yet another secret because her death is still unknown

All ten fingers missing their rings
Before bringing out her body, her missing car, a suspicious friend brings
The cause of death the coroner can't determine from a number of things
An accidental overdose, suicide or foul play from one of her ****** flings
We don't know, Rest in peace Tina girl,
You finally got your wings

They pull the strings behind the scenes, they think themselves queens and kings controlling everything.
And we're the poor pawns that fawn on and on and on, day to day, from dusk til dawn.
We need to stop the cycle. No, we HAVE to stop this cycle. Get off the bike, though, we might not like to, Because we're prisoners and though we're lacking actual shackles, our rights are *** backwards, and the rulers are money-hungry psychos.
We the people pay the price,
The price for living paid in pain and constant suffering,
Nothing's really what it Seems,
And no one Sees because We numb ourselves through drugs and Vicodins,
Pill-poppers, downers, uppers,
Blunt-puffers, paint huffers,
Wrist cutters, coke snuffers,
Methamphetamine intravenously-injecting stupid *******.
Drug smugglers, crack stuffers,
Mother struggles, baby suffers,
Speed lovers, glass crushers,
We numb it all so no one bothers.
but sitting comfy at the summit,
Watching the planet plummet,
Are the ones pulling the strings behind the show.
The ones without a soul.
The ones behind it all, yet few of us do know.
It's time we all wake up, stop confirming to the rules, it's time we cut these strings and put the people in control.

The gravel crunches
as we walk
and it's cold.

We push our breaths out
of chapped lips, and wipe
away dried spit, with nicotine
fingers.

Pigeon feels the baggies in his pockets
full of vicodin,
that's gonna get us ****** up.

His fingers look like earthworms through his jeans
as he gropes for the baggy.

I get that jolt, just thinking about it;

that jolt of happiness you feel right before you get
real ****** up.

I look around and pull out a Camel Light,
because that's all we smoke.

And light up. It's real
white out, white and cold.

The moon's fat as a snowflake
and foggy up there too.

I move my toes,
and can't feel a thing,

****.

We crunch through the woods,
catching glimpses of the moon, and the lake
through the trees.

I want to hit this fifth of Henny
jerking in my backpocket,
but I'm saving it.

Pigeon stops.

Me and Gus keep walking.

Pigeon coos.

We turn around.

He whips out the plastic baggy,

In the moonlight the Vicodins look
like those tiny, candy skulls you get on halloween.