They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.
Category Archives: Addiction
They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;
9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.
11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.
That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip, it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal, the powdered kick, the fast morning hit…. my own fists against my own unrecognizable face, the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.
I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.
They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.
Brave we are:
when the father is a ghost
when the head of a beloved doll rolls
across the wooden floor
of a vacant house
when the mother cuts her finger
across her swollen lip,
when teeth fall
before their time is up.
Brave are the children
of the aging woman
whose reality forehadows the
When the child, so worshipped
when there is a blackness
darker than when they
put out the forest fires
in his head.
When bringing your child to the doctor
for mental malaise is as healing
as bringing him to the undertaker
on the street corner,
of an overpopulated city,
which gets glorified by how high
its towers rise,
and how far its people fall.
When I told my hero
of her braveness
and said she was nothing.
She was nothing,
dressed in denim on a hot
to stop the U.V rays,
from making thymine dimers
in her RNA.
flood her face, submerging
the pain in her smile.
A fist full of forgiveness
for the man who did this,
her hero of nothing,
whose eyes eat the children,
whose lust burns the forests
into clay, which the rain,
makes maleable again-
shaping out this brave image
where we fit into nothing.
Each day I am becoming,
I am also unbecoming,
becoming who I am,
unbecoming who you want me to be.
The hero in you, is the hero in me,
cut flower bleeding pure.
I am steel gaze of blazing spirit.
I will myself into what I envision.
Puff of opium, syringe of heroin,
this clean body, that never
succumbed to the dragon.
I am wizard woman on mountain,
casting spells to bring you out of
your last heroic nod, poppy seed
in eyes of foreign God.
I will learn the art of resuscitation,
resurrect the fallen, the street man,
who held my photograph in his hand,
wondering what I might become,
the mystery man, with braided hair
and dark skin, the one who never
found his way out of the stem.
My father, the enigma.
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence,
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.
Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.
“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”
Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.
Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?
The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.
The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
We all have our versions of paradise.
You are mine.
You are mine
You are mine.
Look at me, the armless statue, the gaping silence, the doom daughter. I called to leave a message, told you I was going away to a place where you couldn’t find me, and they called out my name in the streets, stared down into murky water under bridges. I lay hidden in a boat, a broken mess of unsailable hope. I was covered in my own poison, utterly soaked, and no one ever found me, until I awoke sober and ashamed. I walked barefoot through traffic towards my home, wolf breath, the bully blowing smoke, laughing me black like withered ash, dark resin, the scrape of a ghost over glass. I want to be the Woodswoman of daily syringes, walk detecting steel in my blood. You enter me endlessly, a stranger, a lost mast, what the wind blew in, what the comets dropped. Starchild, black hole, cyclone. I unwill your fluid gaze from the body of ice, my mother, the antichrist. Screaming walls, screaming falls down tubes not meant to hold. The kicking, the kicking, the termination. I bleed it out of me 12, 20 and 6. It breaks even, no placenta, only this warm gush in the morning, in the moon tide, unwanted. My arms are my arms are…look what I hold, this is not yours, this is not mine, this will not keep, a thousand emptied syringes, a highway leading out, high tide, low sun, afterglow of spent agony. In bed with a stranger again, father, the water, the sky, the hell fire, a triangle of incongruity.