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the other day i got to thinking
and as usual you came to
mind
i know you're dead
and all
but wasn't that you down
on newport and cable
the other day
you looked like you could
use a shave so
i picked up some
razors
and the smirnoff was on sale
so i said what the hell
i'd like to pour you a drink
but you always said vodka
and speedballs don't mix
so if you're listening
i wanna tell you a story
bout this bitchin dude
i knew
and if it sounds at all
familiar
just know it isn't you
you're not real
fiction's your middle name
this is more like a game
i play
solitaire
only i don't like the fucking cards
i've been dealt
for the longest time i couldn't
sort through the hash
couldn't stand
the smell of a match
the flame just high enough
to turn the spoon black
and a tiny piece of cotton
sucking up the white
odorless
crystalline derivative
of morphine
you called your fix
wait a minute
i remember it being
black
you remember
when you'd call up
the connection
"chela, traeme quince
de negra, andale!"
es tu vida
a cohete in one hand
a bottle in the other
bob marley wailing
in the background
i was absorbed in my own
self-pity
when i heard the crash
boom bang
of life coming to an end
i ran as fast as i could
i reached for you
but your lips had already
turned blue
none of this was new
but this time i just didn't
know what to do
you wouldn't come to
my heart was beating
a mile a minute
yours was stopped cold
by a mixture of heroin
and cocaine
a speedball
rushing through your veins
too fast to stop
at first your body felt warm
all over
felt good
but then
i put the smirnoff on
the mantel
use it as a bookend
the bell jar
countee cullen
and a few other black
poets
knocked over by the weight
send you crashing
to the floor
cheap urn
damn near cost me
my life
the razors i brought back
a few days ago
and my wrists have pretty
much healed
i can even shuffle
the fucking cards now
you know
the other day i got
to thinking and as usual
you came to mind

Copyright © 2002 by Shannon Gleeson