Dancing Crackhead

Many times I’ve tried to kill this sexual face of mine but fell mad in love once again.

Yet again ~

I was attracted to myself, me, and the I and no one else.

Dancing in the mirror – doing a spin ~ rock posters on the walls.

Oh man, a little a ‘dis smoke helps me play it so cool

like a bit of the ding dong ding loving his Chinese poon tang Ming

and, hey jack!  ~ I know you know what I mean.

Rock posters on the wall

Loving rock cocaiine.

Go-Go dancing in my brain cocaine.

One day I know they’ll let me in the fiends

Hall of Fame.

And I looked back at my haunting reflection with a razor sharp gleam. A crackhead chopper razor gleam. Checking out my scraggly beard and tempestuous face scaring the ghosts taking pleasure notes behind me ~

I was mostly thinking about a way to take a large chunk of the pie without stuttering through my lines. This so-called American dream baby’s been sold on and I keep eyeballing from my place deep in the warm quicksand.

And I kept on dancing – getting myself unbuckled.

Feeling the good mood and the compulsory hornytoads running the energy up n down the broken stem. Feeling like my head was navigating swimmingly through the aggravation – I thought I had it under control but then the fading daylight reminded me of the smell that had me hooked and it left me turned off with disappointment.

The ceiling fan was still spinning in synch with the record album ~ 33 lp

and I thought about chopping up that last precious little rock, but not in Arkansas!, and burning it up to hell in a resined drug sacrifice ~ the sweet smoke.

Some nights I had to eat swill and feasted with the swine ~

all the while laying in my waste wishing to be cleansed with vinegar

and wine.

1995

Victor Millan