jet lag, loneliness and adrenalin

Wherever he went he drew brazen stares.

Rebellious, uninhibited character.

Never wanted more than a conquest,

never told a girl he wanted to have a relationship

when he didn’t mean it.

Always sounded nasally like he had a cold.

Was having a lot of nosebleeds.

His reaction to it was like it wasn’t severe.

Dissolved cocaine in a glass of water and drank it.

Didn’t worry about drug-to-drug interactions.

Called up friends in the middle of the night:

"I love you and if you don’t love me, I’m sorry. . ."

A White Corvette convertible was his dream.

A Teal Chevy Celebrity was his nightmare.

Succeeded in calming himself only after reading

about the Mormons.

IRS problems.

Two hundred dollar-a-day heroin habit.

Drank sake bombers.

Then the phone stopped ringing.

Has been at twenty-two.

Deeply despondent.

Frantically sough to exit a dead-end road.

Trapped in a vicious cycle.

Looked for some way out.

A tearful goodbye.

Became a specialty act.

Knees bruised and bloodied from too much groveling.

Writing checks to get his dog out of the kennel.

Desperation deepened.

"Sometimes I wish I could just blow my brains out,"

he told his phone therapist.

Wild mood swings.

Going down the stairs,

had a bottle of wine in his hand,

hopped into his teal Chevy Celebrity,

in a rush to go home to Mom.

Had no intention of slowing down.

Hit a curve at high speed.

Plowed into a tree.

Steered the Celebrity into Mom’s driveway.

Into the garage.

Nose broken.

"Head. . . hospital…"

Inconsolable.

Laying on the floor of the Celebrity,

legs spread,

nine-millimeter gun between his legs,

looking at his reflection in some shards

from the rearview mirror.

POP!!!!

All this blood.

Pool of blood.

The wound looked like this big flower

on the side of his head.

Author's Note

Wherever he went he drew brazen stares.

Rebellious, uninhibited character.

Never wanted more than a conquest,

never told a girl he wanted to have a relationship

when he didn’t mean it.

Always sounded nasally like he had a cold.

Was having a lot of nosebleeds.

His reaction to it was like it wasn’t severe.

Dissolved cocaine in a glass of water and drank it.

Didn’t worry about drug-to-drug interactions.

Called up friends in the middle of the night:

"I love you and if you don’t love me, I’m sorry. . ."

A White Corvette convertible was his dream.

A Teal Chevy Celebrity was his nightmare.

Succeeded in calming himself only after reading

about the Mormons.

IRS problems.

Two hundred dollar-a-day heroin habit.

Drank sake bombers.

Then the phone stopped ringing.

Has been at twenty-two.

Deeply despondent.

Frantically sought to exit a dead-end road.

Trapped in a vicious cycle.

Looked for some way out.

A tearful goodbye.

Became a specialty act.

Knees bruised and bloodied from too much groveling.

Writing checks to get his dog out of the kennel.

Desperation deepened.

"Sometimes I wish I could just blow my brains out,"

he told his phone therapist.

Wild mood swings.

Going down the stairs,

had a bottle of wine in his hand,

hopped into his teal Chevy Celebrity,

in a rush to go home to Mom.

Had no intention of slowing down.

Hit a curve at high speed.

Plowed into a tree.

Steered the Celebrity into Mom’s driveway.

Into the garage.

Nose broken.

"Head. . . hospital…"

Inconsolable.

Laying on the floor of the Celebrity,

legs spread,

nine-millimeter gun between his legs,

looking at his reflection in some shards

from the rearview mirror.

POP!!!!

All this blood.

Pool of blood.

The wound looked like this big flower

on the side of his head.