Two-faced is
the name she called,
curse your god and
kill yourself.
Three days and six
into relapse and
spiraling down
we were newly wed,
she was an angelic child
of Billy Burroughs and
kicking against the goads.
Forty days, no more,
since we had stolen
away from rehab,
the exodus,
our hearts hardened
and necks stiff,
willing sacrifices
on blood stained alter,
but today our worship
offered no respite.
Tears fat as Martha's
rolled down her cheeks
leaving Revlon tracks,
ashes and sack-clothe.
Unable to wash away
born-again
dope-sick Jones.
I offered no comfort,
instead righteous indignation,
I lashed out.
A paired countenance?
Truly that and more.
Ten Thousand faces
I have known.
A Thousand Thousand
lies, to keep us high.
The number of
finger and thumb
rolled cotton balls
dried stiff,
orange caps and
rigs dulled and
matchbook sharpened
with the units
worn smooth on
over-used barrels
left behind busted-up-dressers,
pay-by-the-week motels,
without end,
like Abraham's children.
Numbers this great
have names known
only to the church
of long dead magicians-
earliest mathematicians,
hookah and hashish,
bridging the gap
between sand and stars,
between Heaven and Earth.
Each face, each place and
infinite next pilgrim
share singular purpose-
a prayerful look forward.
Scanning without cease
the horizons, the very
edge of paradise,
hungry eyes searching
(milk and honey I promise)
through tunnel vision slits
of unending masks
seeking favor, discernment and grace-
forgiveness for sins as yet uncopped and
the darkest spirit asking me,
in a small still voice,
Good and faithful servant
who will you be in this moment
in order to stay loaded today?
