Addiction in verse

Two plus two is seven. Three plus three makes nine. My math isn’t bad, I’ve just left the world behind.
When all I want is poison, and all I need is time, every wall is plastered with a face and begging eyes.
I feel it in my stomach and digest it in my lungs. When every breath is calculated, I forget what I once sung.
More is more for nothing. It exists in fantasy. In a place without consequence, I will let her lick my teeth.
I’ll hear her muffled scream from the carpet in the dark and do everything I can to let her tear my world apart. 



The pressure continues to build. It is escalated by every look and sound and lingering scent. It fills my mind, dictates my mood and influences my motions.

Then, she whispers. Her voice vibrates with electricity and pushes my pulse. Beginning coyly, her words slowly become more pointed with truth and more carried by desire. She ignores her inhibitions. I reciprocate her attitudes.

Apparent, always, is the risk. We feed from it until we are filled and empty, though insatiable. Every scheme is sketched beneath a vale with the care of a tenured tutor. We step quietly, then quickly. We dance until our breath is chaotic amid the sweat and sound and struggle.

She begs for more and I acquiesce to her demands. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow we continue, as if it is all we need: without thought for food, or rest, or feeling. Time allows our indulgences, and she consumes me. Then, we begin anew.

I died on the corner of Powell and 92nd.

Two men are talking on the sidewalk. They are speaking in a language that I don’t understand. They are different than me.

I stand beside them and everything is calm. The breeze blowing by reminds me that this place is strange, new. Traffic flows steadily on the street.

Suddenly I feel a chill. My nerves tingle and my bones ache. My knees are weak and they collapse downward. I lay on the ground and feel the cold of the cement. Then, a liquid warms my face, but my vision goes before I can determine its color. I wheeze out air and struggle to refill my lungs against the weight of my body. The air won’t come.

A woman screams. Why is she so upset? What happened to the calm? Someone is running! The sounds, they mesh and muddle into a melancholy metronome. Its vibrations provide the last music I hear. Good Lord! I’m freezing!


As I watch the television, I’m wishing I could sprout a fire. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not speaking in metaphor. A flame is what I desire, surrounded by rock and burning dry, fallen wood. I can smell the smoke. Together with the fresh air, it fills my lungs. The television is disappearing now. The florescent lights dim. The characters portrayed are melting. It’s just a fire, it seems–in the middle of my living room.

Then, the walls begin to dissipate. In fact, the roof goes first. It’s not destructive, but rather a peaceful fading. The paint goes from white to black, yes, but it’s quicker than that. It’s almost as if a fog is clearing. The ceiling clears away as a haze in the sun, giving way to a night sky and stars above. Smoke curls up from the fire to meet the starry gaze.

Now it’s the walls. Yes, they’re descending, shrinking, lowering even. I know the bushes and homes and grasses that are outside, but none of them appear. No, there are trees and forest and dirt. It’s moving quickly. My possessions are nothing. It’s me, the carpet, the fire and the forest.

Moss grows toward my feet. Through the carpet comes splotches of green and brown, tinted with the shadows that dance across the atmosphere from the flickering flame. I’m consumed by the wilderness–entrenched. A song, a tune plays in my ear like a whistle and a hum, giving way to the crackle of the fire. I breathe in the scents that surround me: the evergreens, the burning and the dirt, and am lifted to the stars upon the plume of smoke that rises before me.

I’m a radio clown

On the air and at sea–

A lecherous leper

Who’s grasping at teeth.

I’m an integrity salesman

Who’s clipping his wings,

And we’re all just beggars

Wanting shiny things.

We’d talk of religion

If it made any sense,

Sell our souls if we had them

For liquor and rent.

Know it’s not God that binds us,

Rather sorrow and shame

And a love which we strive for

To better our names.

So put it behind you.

I’ll try to forget,

And deceive the spirits

That spin in our heads.

We’ll quell the anger

Together as one

And bury the bodies

Killed in view of the sun.

No more talk of religion,

Or souls of lost men.

We’ll reason the world

With glass beakers and gin.

No ethereal emperor,

Just flesh and bone,

And the craziest world

That we know as our home.

The View

Life falls quickly before slowing to a stop. It turns and flies on wings of hope. It rises high and will drop just as low. It is a series of hopes and dreams, excitement and disappointment, broken aspirations, only to return once more to hope. It will be perfect in love, and nothing again in heart-break. Accomplishment is followed on at times, yet regretted at other times. Moments can mean the difference between all things–between a broken heart and a mended one, between a fallen star and a rising one. To cherish every moment is wisdom and is pertinent to using each wisely. After all, life can only be lived one moment at a time–one moment always leading to hope.

The Wanderer

A hush calms the snowy winter morning

Bringing a chill to a village settled.

He hears the crunch of the older iced path.

He sees the track behind and knows his strength.

The wanderer moves—valley to mountain—

To forget pictures in his thinking eyes.

One thing keeps him pressing, stretching forward:

Hauntings from the villiage, the town, the girl.

But when the crunching and moving subside,

And all that’s left is the snow and the dark,

Silence is no longer his defender;

Quiet is what’s eating him up inside.