Welcome back to the world you’ve neglected
it’s been missing you lately, punk
(image: Alphonse Mucha, “Dawn”)
today begins now just a new year
but a new life, as we put to rest a twenty-two year curse+blessing
(ages eighteen to forty)
that has long outlived its usefulness
not with reluctance but with relief,
for if at first in our intrepid & clueless youth
it resembled a trove of toys & keys to fresh dimensions of alt mind adventure,
it has for awhile now felt a lot more like
a bundle of junk & dirt encumbering us on an increasingly weary journey
so we are happy to strike out into this tabula rasa
to cast off the drug-&-booze yoke
to go straight to the yogic source & stop ripping ourselves off enriching those rapscallions
to sally forth & start anew in a town on the edge of Philly
founded by welsh quakers
with a sizable Irish American population
core of the seven-million-strong Delware Valley conurbation
a mere twenty-dollar round-trip bus ride to NYC
IOW: just about anything is possible now

we wake without a trace of hangover
to see where this new day takes us
& the storm they warned us was coming
seems to have chickened out

but before we move forward, let’s recap:
the dregs of druggy darkness & penisolation
when I lived in SF I was high on meth
for two straight years, the second one was intravenous
quit, for the most part, three years ago, January 2013:
that’s when it switched from a daily way of life
to the occasional binge & purge
I’ve only shot up a few times since moving
back to Puddletown in spring 2015
mostly afraid of & repulsed by needles now
as I was before I ever tried them (if not more so)

one of the last times I binged
I wandered out on Barbur, sequestered myself in a quiet nook
for a weekend, or a week
(makes little difference when you’re a drifter)
had a whole 8ball, savored that security
of knowing you won’t run out any time soon
slept outside, but under cover
mostly smoked & railed lines, but when the bag got low
I got out the few syringes I’d stockpiled “for a rainy day”
loaded up a big shot — knowing it would be all the stronger
for not having injected in so long
thought I’d hit a vein — & promptly MISSED the shot
grotesque lump in my arm where the rush should be
I cursed, incandescent with frustration, almost gave up
but decided to try one more time
loaded up another shot, maybe even bigger
tried a different vein
& HIT
bullseye
WHOOOOOSHHHHH
oh, that rush
one of the intensest I’ve ever felt
hard to imagine, if you don’t know
(but don’t find out)
went on not for seconds but for minutes
thought my heart might burst
had to lay down, catch my breath
eyelids fluttering, on the edge
& then the full dopamine cloud overtook me
felt it go straight to my ‘nads
my dick suddenly bigger & warmer than it’d been in a very long time
(if you think I’m lewd,
don’t be such a prude!)
swooning, drowning in an autoerotic puddle
the day flew by like a clock with wings
that’s why they call it “speed,” I guess
then after a mega-jaculation & a micro nap,
I bundled up for a magic nightwalk
across the silent Sellwood Bridge at 3 a.m.
(under construction & officially closed)
still high, in a kind of afterglow bliss bubble
making up the grammar & vocab of an imaginary language in my head
as I walked, like when I was 15
& had only D & D manuals & Tolkien books for friends
that was a night to write poetry about
I hope Death, after the pangs,
feels something like that

But it isn’t time for Death yet
& I’ve had enough liquor & fireworks to last a year
& maybe the rest of this lifetime
so I woke up sober this morning
to try the grand new experiment
to take on this great challenge
I greet the day with exuberant spirits:
to try living life on its own terms for once
with nothing to hide from
to invest my artistry in more than escape
to fulfill my mother’s sincerest hope
to let my body know I care about it for a change
& nourish it with more than running-on-empty energy
instead of treating it like a muddy old pair of boots
to break each sentence, like an egg,
into the perfect omelet of poetry & philosophy
(the things I value most, in defiance of this crass commercial pseudoculture)
to see what we can accomplish without one hand tied behind our back,
with our shit together, unblindfolded, by the light of day
so many things not to miss:
shaky hands, clotted veins, clotted milk,
empty bottles, empty wallets,
broken bridges, broken promises
missed phone calls & opportunities
so many things to welcome back:
dignity, good judgement, creative fulfillment,
waking up with coffee or tea instead of coke or crystal

time to stop talking & start doing

when we find drugs on the sidewalk,
at the library, or on the MAX,let them lie! pass them by!
be high on life & learn to fly!

yes, I’ve said it before,
made these abstemious promises…
what makes it real this time?
but something IS different
this time

let our sobriety be strong
not a flickering fluorescent bulb
but a stainless pillar of sunlight
not a mangy cat on shaky legs
but a hungry tiger prowling
the forest of a late-summer night

wake early, sober, ready to face the day’s gifts & challenges
excited, privileged to do so
rather than rushed into things at half-mast
blinking in the tawny dawnlight
a bit dazed by our sudden ability
to do just about anything
we put our minds to