The state of things now: a black cloud hanging.
It’s not the heart anymore; that blacked out
panging like a self-saboteur.
The brain is crowded, lush, a drug connoisseur;
my life is garbage, crushed under the boredom.
I sleep on the backseat,
or up in the attic on concrete,
a fiend at it again, hitting Ativan,
inhalants and the weed pen;
been stale since that heathen
satan stole my cadence, his old eye credence
describing Jesus as a shill. Higher on pills,
I read Tyler Mills, sense I’m living in hell
and pray the fire fills the heavens.
Addiction and anxiety, no piety—
kill all desire to be around; still I’ve found a breath
and the wait continues like a midsummer tree.
– Oakland, CA