Withdrawal Symptoms

I. Curiosity Opens Addiction
My eyes were like the swaying pendulum
in front of the nicotine addict’s nose.
I didn’t dare blink for
I was afraid that I’d miss
an instant of her presence,
her presents.
Her presence was like presents
wrapped in expensive
extensively torn wrapping paper.
Wrapping me around her finger
like a tourniquet
around a bicep.
She stood and Silence screamed
over the previous soundtrack provided.
She approached and my heart beat
as if I weren’t even alive yet
Her thighs met and
rubbed against one another,
playing a slow melodic cadence
with wire brushes
on my eardrums, vibrant.
My new addiction.
She alternated her smile
with miles of depression,
if state of mind had a distance.
She stood before me,
her right hand on her waist,
smelling like Chanelle No.5
rubbed off of page fifteen from
the magazine Seventeen,
and asked if I could watcher her purse
while she used the facilities.
With the shock still in me
over the confidence she instilled in me
I failed to speak as if I lacked the ability
and nodded my head stupidly
to demonstrate my complicity.
She grinned and walked away. 
I pondered her fertility
and flexibility.  My virility
based on adaptability and possibility.
I rarely see such a beauty
at the locations I regularly visit.
She exited through the doors on the right
and was gone in an instant.
The secretary’s voice echoed
“Brenton, Vincent.”

II. Exposing Track Marks
His eyes were like strawberry syrup
slowly consuming the white of expired milk.
He was the dark cloud
that appeared after the rainbow,
cumulonimbus designs like
broken windows
shattered minds like
broken windows
while God closes doors
and forgets to open the window.
It looked as if
he combed his hair with sidewalk,
while he slept the rest of the night off,
mouth covered in white chalk,
a computer perpetually signed off.
His eyes played Evil Dead
or Linda Blair
twelve years old on the bed.
I secretly hoped that he’d pass out
take his place in line instead.
I waved my hand at him
to ensure he’s not just a reflection.
We’re both from the land of
failed drug tests and license suspensions,
easing tension with inexpensive inventions.
Our intentions uncover what the curtain holds
while we hurt the soul and seek the dirt controlled.
Our diets indulge off of forbidden fruit
then we eat our turkey cold.
So I couldn’t help but stare from afar
I counted the holes in his clothes,
his mouth, and his arms
while he counted the holes in the ceiling
and brushed his finger
against a rusted track mark.
The secretary repeated,
“Brenton, Vincent.”
He finally rose out of his seat
raised his hand and
as if ashamed
covered  his arms with his sleeves.

III. Withdrawal Symptoms
With eyes like a kid in a sweat shop
hungrily working amongst sewage
sewing the Coach patch on a generic purse
bound to fall apart with some usage.
Held together by single threads,
a life denying that it’s over,
I held her purse so close to my chest
for it reminded me of its owner.
a memento
much like maidens use to
drop white handkerchiefs
to encourage their knight.
We encourage the night
by dropping conversations of
sobriety and blame society.
As I waited,
for Renee McCrae,
the obese secretary,
to say my name
all I could think about was
Renee McCrae,
the obese secretary,
saying her name
to me and adding some specificity
to my day dream.
Though it was hard to dream
while the cameras connected to
the corners of the ceiling
spied on me
and carried my image through
to black and white monitors,
where fat security guards judged me
and my misery.
I tried not to look
directly at the lens.
We’re all test subjects of men.
They preach then suspend
then make us depend again.
So our recovery depends.
Permanently lost within
an igloo of solitude.
My teeth chattered
a fang out of a molar.
Latitude became longitude.
In between the pain
that paranoia created,
my love crossed
my mind like a crucifix
momentarily throwing a drape
over the suffering
I was forced to endure that day.
I waited for my afternoon snack
a coffee table smothered in mistake.
Only Renee McCrae,
munching on her
original glazed
addiction shared in my confusion.
I hugged the withered purse
and, again, pretended it were
my love’s fragile embrace.


IV. The Hassle of Renee McCrae
Renee’s eyes behind magnified glasses
magnified the classless
reaction she was forced to exhibit.
It’s as if our infractions
and her interaction
with us addicts
transformed her passiveness
to endorsing repentance.
Biblical figurines
Saint Joseph Saint Martin,
amongst others,
surrounded her desk
like Marines on the front line.
Renee had been secretary
longer than drugs
had been necessary
to me, for my need
she had seen everything
pregnant women
who’ve done crimes
only so they can afford one line.
The veins on her legs,
were like state boundaries on an atlas,
two hundred thirty-five pounds
of pure patience
in dealing with addicts
who threw tantrums
over rehab hassles,
and insurance and
how we lacked it.
Yet with Vincent Brenton occupied
and my love in the restroom, absent
it gave Renee and I an opportunity
to converse
learn details about eachother
that others hadn’t yet
so she lowered
“Rebel for the Hell of it:
The Life of Tupac Shakur,”
and asked if
I had ever seen Grid‘lockd.
I had but I denied
for I knew where
the conversation was headed.
We sat in silence,
awaiting the next action.
Then Renee finished her donut
and waddled to the bathroom.
I sniffed my love’s purse
and ran my fingers over its patches.
.

V. Love Rehabilitation
Rene’s scream
was like a dog whistle
from the bathroom stall
cracking glass like Ella Fitzgerald.
It imperiled the serene dream
that floated through my mind.
A subliminal syringe
pinched my thoughts
and injected the feeling
of lost phantoms
scratching their fingers
down the curve of my spine.
Security on walkie-talkies
scrambled frantically towards
female facilities
the door on the right
swung and lacked stability
strangely their screams seemed to rhyme.
I heard Rene sobbing
reacting, coughing and gagging
trying to find the words to describe
a person to confide in
they were so sloppy with the scene
I followed and they didn’t hide.
I entered and
kicked an empty Baclofen bottle,
trying to catch a better sight
because even though
curiosity killed the cat
and introduced the itch
that we couldn’t help but scratch
society pushed
our curiosity to the ledge
and told us we could fly.
Then I identified my beauty,
my love defined.
Her smile beneath open eyes
counting the holes in the ceiling.
Here eyes were burgundy red
Her pale skin
had not yet plagued her lips
slightly open
burgundy red
Her right arm extended far
with broken wrists
painting the tile burgundy
red.
Finally, I was pushed out
the rehab front door
as paramedics rushed in
I felt her purse at my chest
and wondered…
how much cocaine
I could get for it.