Please excuse WordPress’s inability to adequately format poetry… For better versions of these poems, please consult Beatdom’s fifth issue, available free through www.cityofrecovery.com.
At the clinic
I wait anxiously, stuffed into
a cramped eight-seat waiting room
that everybody calls “the queue”
sitting between a stone-faced
gangster and a mother who won’t
stop barking at her three children.
I wait quietly, my eyes fixed on
the anti-dope propaganda hanging
from the wall across from me
trying to avoid contact with cranky
fiends and money-hungry cripples
looking to unload narcotics scripts.
I wait uncomfortably, my moist hands
resting in my lap, clasped together
to keep them from tapping nervously.
The curious smell drifting from a grubby
man in the opposite corner of the room
likely doesn’t help my turning stomach.
I wait desperately, my dopesick
cells burning for a nice big shot
but ultimately willing to settle
for the purple potion, a small plastic
cup of bitter juice, the only thing
on earth that keeps me alive.
Alone in TV Land
I am a genuine zombie.
48-hour “Cheers” marathon
I watched the whole thing.
Back-to-back episodes of “Rosanne.”
I despise that show, but
my eyes are stuck to the set
and my legs won’t move.
I’m alone in TV land,
a dark lonely room with
blue lights flashing against the walls.
I haven’t blinked since the last commercial.
I’m wasted on punchlines
and strung out on reruns
but at least I’m in a place
where everybody knows my name.