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Kyle Chase Poems

Please excuse WordPress’s inability to adequately format poetry… For better versions of these poems, please consult Beatdom’s fifth issue, available free through

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

It’s official:

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.