INSIDERS/OUTCASTS


The cocoon
                  that spins from the bowl
                  of the poppy plant

wraps the user
                  in shards of atomized napalm
                  that shimmers with the silken veneer
                  of a junky tempo Miles Davis solo
                                                      concise as rain
                                                      sweet as a wren’s chirp
                  on a sandblasted Mexican afternoon
                  with tequila swells splashing against the walls of
                                                      conquistador cathedrals

Time moves
                  with the viscosity of heavy oil
                  in a Dakota winter
                                                      every second stretched beyond tensile strength
                                                      and clocks are reduced to irrelevant instruments
                                                      measuring the stanzas of time in music
                                                       no one plays

Lids droop
                  heads bob
                                                      spoons sizzle
                  slapped veins wilt like overdone pasta
                  as the pathways of digestion
                  clog with wet cement

And when the parched membranes
                  and turgid organs
cry out like hyenas
                  in the stolid African night
there is no pause for weeping and regrets

                  only the constrained squawks of angels
bleating for a fix
                  so that they may stare into
                                                      the eyes of God


                                                      one more time
                                                      without blinking

This is an exclusive club
                  an elite congregation of chemical shaman
                                                      nuzzled in their private knowledge
                                                      suckled by the cryptic language
                  and transformed by their secret rituals
                  that separate them from the chattel of the unaddicted
                                                      for it is the confidential mantras
                                                      passed from junkie to junkie
                                                      syringe to syringe
                                                      bag to bag
those shared scriptures of the corner score
                  and the phosphorescent nod
                  that sets them apart

It is the private joke that no one else gets
                  and the locomotive rush
                  from the asexual orgasm
                  no one else feels
                                                      and the whispering of saints
                                                      no one else hears
                  these are the artifacts that give it all purpose
                                                      and meaning

You live for the titanic rush that rattles your heart
                  while the straights are asleep
                  and wound tight in their beds
and you joust with the city
                                                      burrowing through the hard blackened streets
                                                      where the outcasts rule
and where only the chosen ones
                  can feel the ballooning knot in the stomach


                                                                                                           
Only when the needle tip spits in the vein
                  and you begin to feel like warm butterscotch
                                                      can you share
                                                      the transcendent cackle
                                                      with your own precious
                                                                                           jones