This week, it's nothing but snorting
coke off of the back of the toilet.
A heroin overdose. Two Cheerios left
behind on the hospital room floor.
You get tubes, find your friend in the paper
talking about bicycles, and tonight
acorns will roll into the street.
Micro-chipped is the flower,
snoring away on a guest room wall.
Stolen muffins, and a glass of water,
the smell of it all.
If you think you got super-sonic hearing
when you were under, it is probably
nothing hot chocolate can't fix.
1 comment:
The drugs in your poems never seem to be entering your own body. What do you think about that? I mean, for real. Because there are lots of drug references in lots of poems, but often times it's a way for the writer to be identified as someone hip enough to know the slang. Someone on the inside.
In the end, I think I'm saying that your poems, T-Bone, are matter of fact, straight on in the way they address the world. Which is cool.
I do think you could consider the possible meter here, because it's certainly there. If you contract it is to it's and rip out some of your conjunctions, the meter, or at the very least rhymth, of the poem makes itself more clear. And that's a good thing.
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