At the Dealer's Pad

Damage Done has nothing to do with Neil Young. The motions of staying too long in a bad situation.

I.                    What it is

 

It’s a discreet reality

hidden behind closed blinds

observed in a tangelo glow

it’s the sound of coughing,

the crackle of a clove cigarette,

It’s the great conversation

with the stranger you just met

it’s the bonding between kin

telling stories of suffering addiction

and when it took hold,

it’s that clammy feeling in your hands

while you’re feet are freezing cold

It’s a weak tingle in the index finger,

an inability to resist rubbing your nose,

notice and pick another scab,

then do another line,

 

 

II.                Where you Are

 

Here, everything is fine

it couldn’t be more fucked up than it already is

might as well take off your shoes,

lean back

and stay a while

it’s the sway in a sigh,

the bend that gives

it’s the high that makes the runner dash that extra mile

chasing down adrenaline as if  they just stole your wallet

 

III.              What it becomes

 

everything is whatchamcallit after a while

but we still get the reference

 

everyone is whatstheirname

yeah, I know who you mean

I think I saw her on the street the other day

She looked kind of strung out

think she was waiting for the bus

I didn’t stop though,

I was on my way to work, in a rush

Haven’t seen her since

 

God, what was her name?

 

 

IV.             Belonging

 

Glad to be a part of it

No need to escape

or admit the inability to cope with boredom

it was the company, the inconceivable coincidences

among strangers, it was the comfort in numbers,

or the silent judgment on others

 

Reading the dealer’s computer screen saver

run across the computer monitor

“how much louder can you get that cell phone”

“can you say drugs any louder?”

“just this one time”

“I’m not like the rest”

 

I hate being part of the herd

Someone is playing cards idly across the room

telling me my convictions are absurd

while they shuffle the deck needlessly

rambling on about their hard lives

or the crew they run with

I don’t know them (fool)

and how can I make that assumption

while they’re tolerating my sarcasm

for a view of my tits

I see them praying for a black out or orgasm

 

better than wonderland

trying this taking that

too tired move my tongue,

not even for a kiss

 

V.                The party’s over

 

I’m lucid, but definitely can’t talk

pinned to silence

I would get up to go

but I can’t walk

I’m pretty sure it’s not a good time to drive

in this state of luxury

 

Lungs are breathing,

heart is beating

 

I know,

I’m still lucky to be alive

 

Keep pushing it

until its gone past the halfway mark…

that famous boundary, that line

the one you’re not suppose to cross

(do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars)

The line where even idiots consider themselves scholars

 

The heartbroken swear it’s not their loss

as they b***h and whine

about how she never appreciated s**t

then make a purchase, realize they double parked

suddenly needing to rush out

followed by the sound of the door locking

and footsteps down the stairs

 

VI.             Back to status quo

 

Then we’re alone again

 

Don’t leave me out here

out on the range

the goats ran out of paper

and they’re trying to eat my brain

…

 

Reviews

[Ron]

I know nothing about drugs. Reading this poem makes me wiser about the horrific subject but so grateful I will never have to confront them. I thank God my daughters are not interested in them too. This disturbing poem should be compulsory reading in every girl's classroom. In every drug treatment clinic, in every Doctors' surgery!

[Tree]

Loved the Journey, the descent, the awakeing. Also the format you use
to guide the reader, through the stages of the piece.

[.]

I wrote on the same subject..your poem is so clever in it's construction..the whole drug carefully dissected and put back together..you have captured that perfectly and so originally said..loved the sarcasm laced through the piece. brilliant

[VIK]

G8 WORK THR..... AMAZING....

[Voice]

This is very good and quite an intriguing piece. I really love what you have done here. Great write!!

Voice

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

gad I know this world~ intimately~ the surreal unfolding is like a little broken paper house with shutters askew~ waiting for the light to tear itself from the shadows of the interior through into elsewhere's~anywhere but there~
stunning is an understatement!~ brilliant fits it better~

[Pax Analog]

Stunning.

This poetic reportage emanates the frost of memory. Glancingly, in 1988, this scene resonates personally. A guitar friend favored coke; I was curious. Not my thing, tho' still have a soft spot for maryjane.

The effect here is like stepping into a walk-in freezer, a bardo where the escape never really happens, the hype never really delivers, where the lonely ache of zombification lingers long into the following day's quotidian questions.

"Don’t leave me out here/out on the range/the goats ran out of paper/and they’re trying to eat my brain"

Haunting.