Divarication Nine

divarication nine


The streets molded us.
We were warm plastic
baking under the glow
of fast-food heat lamps
and crackling, humming
blue neon arcs. There was 
a name for our future, it 
was


fearful.
We are accustomed to 
assisted peaks and valleys,
the chemical ebb and flow

adrenaline, our forgotten


wonderful.
Each hit the glory of
gratification. She said she 
needed only me,
and the heroin, her


ally.
Smooth rounded
edges, but always bright,
always aware of our 
prodigious sensitivity,
but the others couldn't 
understand why


enemy.
It was lurking,
deep in the center of each 
transaction, or waiting 
at the bottom of her purse, 
inlaid with crude sequins,
some pulled, leaving 
a twisted stereogram
of fear, recognized only 
when we stared past 
the plane of the fabric,
in the thrall of neurochemistry.
This was the reason


savior.
A pharmacological sacrifice
for our sins. Washed away
in blood, sucked up into the
syringe, just a drop...
Righteousness evident in
distant eyes, but when we 
walked the street,


we always had our eyes closed.
No need of sense or presence
(taking place of pretense, taking 
place of preparedness, taking place
of parents) when


we always had our eyes open.
Her teeth fell out.
Late autumn leaves, 
crackling and brown.
My fingertips had 
stronger memory: 
her curves, her chin,
her wrists, the tracks of her veins
each magnified, glorious.
My fingertips had
me convinced that


all we needed was
one another (for such
sweet sorrow), and
the drug, to eat away
the flesh
(which held the vice)
and the street
(which held the gun).