The Poet and the Junkie

Words inked on a
white sheet of paper:
I want to sniff into
my heart the word
love
and make liquid
strength
into my veins,
make balance
a shot in my brain.

But no, I can’t
seem to roll blunts
of happiness and
freedom:
the ashes are too
gray to be happy.

Perhaps if I wrote
“Reality”,
with a capital letter,
on paper acid,
I’d feel like I belong
Somewhere.

For now it’s just me
and the white sheet of paper.

Numbing to Feel

I am deaf. Deaf to the outside world. My ears are only open to my Bose noise-cancelling headphones and whatever trippy beat they’re injecting my neurons with. Loud. Always loud. No external noise will seep into those combinations of rhythm. That’s why they are called noise-cancelling. I am a noise canceller. Nothing undesirable will enter.
I am blind. Sun glasses always on. Be it rain or snow, and of course, also on sunny days. No one can look through me. No one can see I’m not blinking. No one can see my eyes are wide open and steady no one can see I’m sober no one can see I’m tripping no one can see I’m flirting no one can see I’m despising them no one can I’m staring at a very fixed point. That gets me going. Really, it’s nearly orgasmic.
Because I am legless. Only my still spots and loud music put me into a state of trance. Honestly…? I have no idea how I got here. It feels like I’m always ridding on a bus. I am always riding on a bus. I’m always riding on a bus… I move through osmosis. I love it.
I am mute. I speak what’s unknown to the others, my own very thoughts, the repeated beats I’m listening to blended with yesterday’s poetry I wrote on the trash can at Christopher Street with Bleecker. Do you remember? Dear trash can… my thoughts are so prophetic, only you could ever touch the depth of my thoughts.
I must be fucking brilliant.

.welcome.to.bipolar.

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