junkie verses for the insomniac

Poems For The Still Sick and Suffering


I have seen it.
I have watched brilliant minds martyr their freedom
to solve their concerns and slip into a soft mind
just to feel easy.
I have seen good people lose to the warm vacant whispers of the white sand.
White horse pierced through the membrane of their flesh
and galloped throughout the spine after the shove of a hollowed pin
to spin a synthetic flash of an amazing blurry light.

With eyes closed, you can see yourself. You can see your reflection in a starry
twilight: a crescent moon, pitched on its axis, and soothing life
into a slow, sexy crawl.
With eyes closed, the world loses its ugliness and the ground falls far below
as you surf the dream of a beautiful nod.

Shoving in, the vein opens like a hungry mouth.
Bloodstream changes like a river as it hits the sea, and in an instant,
tension evacuates, sweat beads down the bridge of a nose,
and the world slips into a dreamy landscape
A motherless baby cries
(somewhere on West 4th St)
A tear crystallizes and stains the cheek
Two days pass without leaving notice and when the eyes open, all you see
are the tiny emptied envelopes that once carried a terrific sickness

Now all you need is another ticket to return to the better climate

And that’s why they tell you,

“The first one is always free.”


We move south in tiny collisions and migrate into the warmth.
It overcomes and takes us away
. . .like a breeze.

Inside the movement, we spread apart like the feathers of a dove’s tail,
and drift silently into the delicate air. All is soft and heartbeats flood the body
with a reoccurring climax that sound like bells chiming in our ears.

We begin to soothe and unravel. We revitalize in the process of synthetic
redemption and lose ourselves in our newfound cathedral, which is like
a mental shelter that calms the nerves or softens the anxiety,
to melt us down in a semi-conscious version of a life that seems perfectly weightless.

We exhale . . .
White horse appears and fragments of anything relevant dissolve.
Nothing is stiff.
There are no more worries to argue with the outside insults of time
or concerns about life on life’s terms.
The dose is just an inhale of an absolute drift,
which follows with an exhale of all that weighs heavy

I had this dream once.
I trickled down like a droplet of water that dangled from a thirsty leaf,
which had since been satisfied by the sin of excess.
I dangled.
I moved like a lazy stream, like a bedtime story to the insomniac,
and at last, I collided with a great lake
where water reflected like a mirror to the sky.

I slipped into the vastness and drifted like an autumn leaf treading water
beneath the chill of a clear blue sky.Weightlessly . . .

When I woke up, I was beneath a bridge on the side of the Meadowbrook Parkway
My forehead was bleeding from lying on broken glass
it was February, cold
and everything was gray


The thing about this itch is that even though
you understand warnings about the bottoms and demons,
you still move into it.

You move into the suction, almost uncontrollably. Suddenly,
and quite convincingly, a strange clarity comes with the madness.
There is vision inside a crazy thought process that only makes sense
to those who’ve felt it.
Speaking to or with anyone else becomes pointless —
or a hassle.

You tend to move around because you have to.
Remember, it’s harder to peg a moving target.
And the truth is
everyone in “The Life” wears the bull’s-eye at some point.

You learn to earn, day by day, and you find the quick scams to feed yourself,
or should I say, “Survive.”
The same way a person walks to work, or the way someone has their
routine every morning is the same for a person with the itch.
There is a need. Or better put, like food and shelter, there is a similar relation
to supply and demand.

The same way a man finds his favorite chair and sinks in to find comfort
is the same way a junkie learns to soothe the itch
To a junkie, the package is a perfect sofa
It’s a place to sink into and slide into the life of soft indulgence.

Let me put it like this

Take the favorite chair away and see what happens
to the man who depends on it:
his back hurts from sitting anyplace else
he can’t get comfortable
his legs ache because they can’t stretch
he misses his favorite chair
he needs it
he needs it like he needs food or water
it’s like he can’t find any peace
it’s like he’s starving for something
it’s like . . .
it’s like everything is raw
like nothing fits into place
and the only thing that sits right would be if that man could sit in his chair

Take dope away and see what happens to the one who lives on it
Multiply the desperation, the anxiety, the discomfort, the need
the rawness, the aches and pains . . .

Get it now?


I come through the shatter of images, soaked with the moisture excess,
and waiting for more. I am waiting for the wings of an angel to spread,
however, she often dives angry like a bird towards its prey

But I am nothing but a small meal.
I am a tiny morsel; I’m just another piece of meat
and the angry angel is the streets where I find myself

The angel is the tainted bosom, where we feed
and shove pinholes into flesh

Steve asked me, “Have you seen this side of the Hudson lately?”
“No,” I say. “But two bags ago, I thought I saw a little dog
running across the street. Only, it was a rat carrying food
into its hole on Avenue C.”

“A Hole”
A small dark place where light gives way and sells itself short.
I am aware of these things, and the hole I am in
but yet, I feel uninvolved or removed
Steve withered like a leaf swaying down from a tree
during the colorful months of autumn

I could go, I thought
I could take off in a second
I could move like a knife through the wind, and just like that,
I could cut myself away from this life
and be free

Instead, Steve and I euthanized clock, watching minutes die
as powder moved though our blood

I guess to guys like us, freedom had more than one meaning
. . . even if it meant being chained to a sickness.


Each of these thousand fixtures we see on a daily basis
are only a piece of the maze.
You and your varying worries,
your concepts of depth
along with the severity of pain.

Me and my sacred sacrifices,
the close-kept moments where honestly,
I’ve wept behind the mask of my untold truths

You know…
I’ve been giving some thought to these so-called
“Expressions of madness”
as well as how you pen them into your schedule.
And by the illusion of your plastic smile,
it seems as though you’ve made the sale with someone and once again,
I am forced to change my posture around you when you lie about your sobriety

But like I said,
these are just some of the turns
these are only a few of the symptoms, or a small fraction of the thousand fixtures, which make up the maze you find yourself in

I know all about jealousy
feeling uneasy
I understand what it means to feel out of place,
and feel undeserving.

I know all about the inner ugliness
as it compares to the shell of exterior beauty
which I tried but could never change.
I know all about the helplessness and
false perception
and the misconceptions that I (like You)
could never be anything better than the person I was

Nothing is perfect in the maze.
I know all about it.

But you chose to turn your way
I chose to turn mine
and now we are just two fixtures from the past in each other’s life.

I was never mad at you, Tommy.

I just couldn’t go down the same path is all.

Sleep well, kid.


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