Addiction is an everyday give and take — and something to ruminate on (in poetic tones) while looking out on the fog in San Francisco.
Down the stairs,
Foghorns echo in orchestras
My skin and bones,
Teeth and tongue,
Hair and nails
A flicker of light,
Medicine cabinet open,
This feeling not an entirely foreign place,
A residence I know all too well
Fog out the window dense,
Benevolence enshrouded
Stillness as a city sleeps
This feeling at 3:14 a.m,
Addiction wears many heels
Heart to hand, chest to wall,
What a mercurial thing,
Bag of cells and elements and minerals
Golden Gate Park peaks into frame,
Unsheathed by wind, cool breeze in winter’s night
Unraveling behind glass pane
Underneath incandescent light
Here we are; no one has to know
Pill bottle in hand, cap opened
Eyes peer into orange cylinder, synthetic jewels
Looking down the barrel of a gun
Safety off; finger on trigger
Pause. Rewind. Remember.
Smile. Chest open. Fast forward.
The mind wanders toward temporary contentment,
Self-assured in telling jokes; these punchlines painted by age
Walked around promenades made of chains,
Coils of regret
Red flags tie knots around black turtle necks
Wrong people; that one man; the other man; cold shoulders in city streets, where iPhones sat silent; Austin, Texas bathed in painful candlelight
I remember grace stumbling
I hear regret screaming
But;
Here;
Now;
Outside the realm of rumination; a mind on its rockers
Anew home, heavenly space
A San Francisco I can call mine;
This fog
Like a kind stranger
A woman, with sun-kissed cheeks
Red lips, dimples carved into face
Says my shirt is inside out
Right side in
Joy piercing through
Like cannonballs; first fall of snow
I can picture it
Finally, after all these days
From small Texas streets to
Bay Area city lights
Feels like home, somehow
Smile stretches, shoulders drop
Disposition sweetens,
This new oath
Medicine cabinet closed,
Traffic cone of a bottle in the trash;
Its remnants settle and travel
Like river rocks
Down the drain
Sacred prayer; how I swear
Back up the stairs
Body full of sensation
How fun to be thirty-one
All’s well that ends well,
Between San Francisco fog
And holy flesh.
