Billy lost his thirties
To hard drugs and cheap booze
And a wife that didn’t love him

He lost his money because
He couldn’t stop himself
When the crack-pipe came around
And besides, the boys on Cork street
Always treated him right

Billy lost his stride to gas station food
And he lost swagger to head trauma

He even lost his luck on pawn

And now he’ll lose his forties
To the tumor that’s growing
In the roof of his mouth
But he’ll never lose that look in his eye,
not that horrible broken one.

Not til the day he dies.



i first heard your name the
winter of my returning home

you were the promise of respite,
a gentle wave lapping on the shore

your words were hyperbole and
placeholders for others and
you said i didn’t have to stay
or that you could go and

some years later it is finally
the morning after
the waves are garbage trucks
the sunlight is acidic
and my arm is rotting
from the paths you traveled,

you just gotta have the right friends


they say they are drugs
and that they do nothin’
but bad,
unless they filter it through
the bureaucracy and all of their
committees and sheets of
paper thick with molasses.

i, say, i love you all when
my little white friends drift
lazily down my throat.
i say that i’m at 100% when my
good old friends sit around
on velvet couches and chat
about things that make us happy
resting our feet on a coffee table
made of pure opium.

dodoot dodoot doot dadoot doot
dodoot dodoot doot dadoot doo doot.

i say my vein lines vibrate like
bass lines when i’m high
and i am at one with lower
pitches and the smoother licks
that life brings. i say that the
cold rain up against my face
trickles down to my spine and
is smile inducing at times.

hey, senator man, church man,
why don’t you let loose?
you wouldn’t think it poison if
you saw how it makes you
more alive.