May 152012

by Benjamin Schmitt


there is a time

when the fun

goes dark

when recreation

becomes habit

and sobriety is a bit like being high


Losing yourself to a rain dampened

consciousness, winds hurl boards of insight and awareness,

chips of membrane fly off

your brow. In the east

the storm has grown

into a gale

at last able to contend with logic

leaving lingerie, pillows, toys, and games scattered on your lawn,

yet the laugh of your wandering eye remains graceful

the sad hysteria of your smile as well

this hurricane has uprooted your kind dispositions

revealing the spiders and the moss.


Blackness infects mindscapes

red hues

turn purple

before shutting out,

friends perform acts which are questionably kind,

all in the service of your drugs.

The smoke you blow tastes rotten,

it billows a putrid heaviness through your cough

if only you could kill the paranoia the way you killed the pain

with a quick hit, a long breath, and a slow exhalation from your lungs.