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: Heroin
They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
Before the glass shattered, it was already broken they say, true to the Zen principle of impermanence. I think of the day I first emerged from the taxi, taking your glass hand in mine, feeling the fragility of every molecule of crystal flowing in the summer light between our glass bodies as we held eachother. I recall the glass city, yet to be explored, shimmering with the beauty of ancient temples, mineral by mineral. I pay glass money to the mosaic man, whose eyes reflect in green visions from a childhood, still seen, on the surface of sand, surrounding the Pacific Ocean, where I shattered into sunlight, collecting broken bottles, which the water shaped to resemble lost gems of treasure. Where has that child gone, her body a mere memory held in cracked neurons, sustained there between the darkness and the stars? I am that bottle, I am that eye, fixated in green brilliance, over the radiance of these shattered encounters, from zygote grin to wrinkled skin. That day on the street, when the glass savior with blot on spoon, dissolving into liquid, injecting through syringe into glass vein through semen, into ovum, the opium of my fluid existence. I hear chimes ring as the wind smashes them against the window, echoing across this wild , wintry country, the songs he sang before my time of fiery emergence. I am that bottle, always accompanying me, in the broken luminescence between light and shadow. I tread carefully amid two contradicting forces, the one with glass breasts and the one with glass phallus, anima and animus, one jagged splinter, ever forging toward the mercurial, toward the mesenchyme of osteoblast and hyaline, ever regenerating new bones, new placenta, new spearhead toward multicellular matrix fold of glass rose, glass wine, glass romance, capable of falling from the balcony where my glassy infatuation lies, already a hazard to the lovers who pass by barefoot and careless tongued. Your countenance glistens, not with the warmth of orbital, but that of ice, incapable of deliquescing. Shatter me a million times, I am already broken, broken like a blister on the lips, where we kiss away the cancerous rays of ultraviolence. Don’t tell me the circle of vibrational circumference is always gravitating further away, because if you say this, we might need to stay, held down by the force of the world, which is forever fated to break.
On a red Wednesday far away.
How far must one feel before it is real? The smell of vanilla reminds me of the creamy sky when the shape of a dinosaur floats by, reminding me then of old caves deeply unearthed, vapour clouds and the reach of Everest the cataclysm of continents drifting and shifting. I think of you who existed in the same world where eggs were fertilized. The time when our species made the great leap, structurally adapting our homologous bodies, from wings, to fins, to the epic void of these empty arms that never held you. We breathed the same air during the same era and yet it’s as if you are a character in a book that existed in a time I can only imagine. So it is that blue is synonymous with the mountain crest where the roaring Pacific faultline pulls like two magnetic forces, an entire separate continent into the arms of another, that time when cultures collide and adapt into common ancestors of different origins, and you smile that orbital smile as the ozone of your affections protects me from the radiation that threatens complete eradication of our species. I love you duplicitous flower, love you black tar highway whose deceit makes the sky appear deep.
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.
Stranger: I think you feel things.
Self: you think wrong.
Stranger: you have a sensitivity.
Self: like having a burn.
Stranger: but it’s beautiful, it makes you real.
Self: it makes me nothing.
Self: *stares at arm, winces at transparent scars*
Stranger: you love with courage.
Self: what is love?
Stranger: what you feel.
Self: I feel nothing.
Stranger: you lie.
Self: it’s easier.
Stranger: easier than what?
Self: easier than burning.
Stranger: but the sun is beautiful.
Self: I prefer the moon.
Self: *stares out the window at the dark sky*
Self: it doesn’t hurt us.
Stranger: but what about the floods?
Self: it’s better to drown.
Stranger: * takes a sip of wine, pours more.*
Stranger: what about your father?
Self: he’s dead, suicide.
Stranger: lies, don’t glorify it.
Self: father is sun, mother is earth.
Stranger: and the moon?
Self: my mistress.
Stranger: bullshit. He was a junkie, she was a lost cause. He’s not a God just because he’s dead.
Self: we’re all dead, existentially.
Stranger: and what about what he did to the others?
Self: spiritual dissociation, sick, dark sick, dissociation.
Stranger: and the heroin?
Self: his salvation.
Self: a broken arm, a syringe stuck in, the sun, the moon, the earth, all of it.
Stranger: and then what?
Self: we bleed.
Stranger: but of course what else could we be?
Stranger: animals are more gentle.
Self: only because you think you can tame them. You can’t. We’re all wild inside.
Power is illusion.
Stranger: and hope is futile they say; life and death choose us equally whether wanted or not, choice is also illusion.
Self: it’s both ugly & beautiful. “We can make a hell out of heaven or a heaven out of hell.”
Stranger: where are you going?
Self: to the forest, the mountains, the sea.
Stranger: but why?
Self: I am in it, it is in me.
Stranger: you are real.
Self: cancer is real.
Stranger: you are nothing.
I want to be nothing too.
Self: you are.
Stranger: I feel it.
Self: feel what?