It’s Not a Habit

It’s Not a Habit

In heaven now, I feel just like a god.

It’s not a habit, it is all still cool,

But then I sober up and grow so cold.

 

A drink or two, and you might think it odd

That this is how I feel alive, a tool

To get to heaven, to feel just like God.

 

It takes these pills, a handful, to grow bold

For just a little longer. But the rule

Is this: I sober up and then grow cold.

 

I do a few white lines. They make me nod

Yes!—that old feeling rising, a whirlpool

That sucks me down to Heaven, to be God.

 

The needle tears a hole, it grabs ahold

To take me up. You must think I’m a fool,

But when I sober up, it grows so cold.

 

No, you don’t know, you’re on the other side.

It’s not a habit, it is all still cool.

In Heaven now, I feel just like a god.

But then I sober up, and grow so cold.

 

 

Deeper

Deeper

The deeper that you stick it in your vein,

you are so high, you’re flying on the floor.

This is the only way that you keep sane.

The deeper that you stick it in your vein,

the deeper that you know you’ll end your pain,

sadness, and anger, being lost and more.

The deeper that you stick it in your vein—

you are so high above you’re on the floor.

Junky Villanelle

Another parody, this one of Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

 

Junky Villanelle

 

Life sucks and so we know rehab is right.

It’s all caught up with us at close of day;

But we know AA meets again tonight.

 

Though drunk men at their end are still too tight

To know what fellows ought to know today:

Life sucks so we know rehab must be right.

 

Potheads, the last slog by, thinking how bright

The colors are—they dance in a green day.

But we know AA meets again tonight.

 

Wild junkies who have felt the needle’s bite

And learn, too late, to speed it on its way

Know life sucks, so rehab must be right.

 

And those crack whores, who’ve lost their  teeth and sight

Wearing bright sores that crack and ooze all day,

Should know that AA meets again tonight.

 

And then, there’s me, here on this saddest height,

Cursed, though blessd, my counselors will say.

Life sucks, so now we know rehab is right.

Yes, we know AA meets again tonight.

 

 

Amadeus

Amadeus

 

“Mozart!” “Mozart!”

     Salieri cried out from the tv screen

          in the guise of an ancient F. Murray Abraham.

 

An award winning role by both

     Abraham and Hulce, I’ve always thought.

          In fact, I’ve always felt Tom Hulce was the finer performance,

 

especially when you consider

     his claim to fame is Animal House.

          “Toga! Toga! Toga!” And of course, fucking Belushi.

 

Mozart’s music and Forman’s movie bring me closer to God.

     There’s something about the way Forman captures the soul of Mozart’s muse.

          It tears my soul from within me, carries me to the heavens.

 

But I lay on the couch, nodding off—

     I’ve taken close to forty Vicoden tonight

          and smoked a Hydro-blunt, the combination of the two

 

is the only thing that gets me off

     anymore since the whiskey don’t work no more.

          I nod off, waking only when the cigarette in my left hand

 

burns the back of my right hand. Again.

     I catch the movie-Mozart’s high-pitched,

          childlike giggle, and wonder how could genius,

 

how could something that takes us

     so close to God be so, so, so… what’s the word I want?

          I close my eyes again and feel the cold nose of my new puppy,

 

Amadeus, a Puggle, noses my cheek

     as I slide down onto the couch, my cigarette

         burning a hole in the cushion—a perfect, charred circle.

 

Mozart died at 1 a.m.

     December 5, 1791 at the age of 35.

          I’m 35, though I’m no Mozart. I pluck away at my guitar

 

sometimes, hoping to be Johnny Cash.

     Sometimes I like to tell myself I’ve the genius

          of Mozart, though I’d be more of a Shakespeare,

 

since, well, obviously I write.

     Onscreen Salieri dresses as Mozart’s demon-father

          inspiring him to write Don Giovanni. On the couch

 

Amadeus licks at the burn

     I just put in my couch moments ago.

          In my head my own father pays a visit

 

as my eyes drift shut

     telling me again what a disappointment

          I am. “Why can’t you just stop?” Why can’t I?

 

The next thing I know

     the closing credits are scrolling

         up the screen and Amadeus has fallen asleep

 

between my legs.

     I light another cigarette,

          knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’ll nod off

 

and scar the hardwood floor.

     But Amadeus is there to wake me

          to take me closer to God with his final Requiem.