Three Poems About Druggist Losers.


“Well, tell me more, tell me more, tell me more
I mean was he a heavy doper or was he just a loser?
He was a friend of yours
What do you mean he had bullet holes in his mirrors?
He tried to do his best but he could not
Please take my advice
Open up the tired eyes”-Neil Young
Tess paced around the living room with such vigor
That after a few steps she stumbled,
Had to use the wall for balance.
“Settle down.” I commanded in a deadpan tone.
“There’s no need to panic.”
She stopped pacing, lit a cigarette and looked out the window.
“Look.” She pointed with the cigarette, ashes fell to the floor.
“There’s a fucking cop standing by that tree. He is looking
Right at us.”
I raised an eyebrow, smiled. “No there isn’t.
You’ve just done too much. Come on
Let’s find some Xanax…or something.”
“No!” She shouted. “come and see for yourself.”
I stood up, peered out the window.
Before me was a tree
Surrounded by naked air.
“Been thinking about killing myself.”
Greg said.
“Can’t get a job. Can’t get a woman. My future is fucked.”
“That’s the dope talking.” I said.
He rolled up his sleeve,
Wrapped a belt tight around his forearm,
Stuck a syringe into his vein
Blood shot into the plastic tube
Turning the water pink.
“Maybe that shot will kill you
And all your problems will be solved.”
I told him.
He used his shirt
To wipe away a dribble of blood
That leaked from a pinpoint wound.
“Only if I am lucky…”
Joe walked in the door
Sat on the couch beside me.
Droplets of sweat
Fell from his sideburns.
“What happened?” I asked.
He exhaled a long sigh.
“Got pulled over…had to shove everything
Up my ass.”
I laughed. “Including the prick?”
He stared at me straight lipped.
“Especially the prick.”

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