165 BPM

165 BPM

"Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction."
         -William S. Burroughs

You can’t recognize your face in the mirror,
no less your soul, I think you sold it to the devil
for one more pint of Smirnoff and Dr. Carter’s script pad.
Your husband kicked you out of the bed for the eighth night this week,
he blamed it on intolerance for the St. Louis Shag;
your mood rock-stepping in those ragtime rags
with croaks for brother to rip that noose  from his neck,

forgetting there’s one around yours,
forgetting he’s been dead for six-months and counting,
forgetting your soliloquy is gravely ignored.

So, you tip a tall glass and swallow a handful of Percocet
followed by a fist of Xanax and a blunt of just roach weed;
a recipe for vindication
(just add holy water).
Toss it over the left shoulder, then over your right,
drowning Moirai with a compulsive hand.

To you, a fix tastes better than ice cream with maraschino cherries
and it’s never sunny in East Tennessee; even on birthdays.