Brett Rogers

Five Weeks Of Healthy Behavior - Poem by Brett Rogers

… No, dear,
You won’t need that here.
You have entered the addiction ward,
First floor, behavioral health.
Confess your sins,
While we take inventory of your evils.
You will be cleansed.
You will find God.”

* * *

“Hi, my name is B Rogers …”
And I am a spider hanging from the ceiling
Like a boxing-ring microphone.
Close your mouths,
Return your eyes to normal,
You have seen my kind before:
I am the baby,
And I am just visiting.

* * *

Grandpa Tom, the biker, is a pothead.
He sits rigidly,
Through our eight-hour sessions,
While liters of caffeine
Pillage his insides.
We laugh at him
And his phony addiction.
We laugh -
At his gray, doll-hair ponytail,
Black boots,
Leather chaps,
Harley jacket (with a stash pocket) .
“I think I’m addicted to the escape.”
He is the social worker’s pet.

[Last second exhales fill my slutty nostrils
From coffee-brown and smoke-yellow mouths.
The faux Parkinson’s inflicted drunks
Shiver toward their seats,
Away from the communal ashtray/garbage can
And the stabbing, pre-snow air.
“Quiet! The baby is sleeping.” (Tom is studying)
I have many mothers … ]

Jane becomes the pale walls
In her fault-line chair
In the noiseless corner,
Lost in the capture
Of her senior-citizen hands,
Lost in the progress
From drunk, to child, to human.
She smiles as her answers
And blushes in ignorance
At her existence,
At her chemical sins.
“Hey! Jane! ”
I stumbled upon her in the outside world,
Then watched
As the back of her head
Slowly grew smaller.

[I am day-dreaming again
Of alcohol baths,
A white-powder storm,
And a rainbow of pills
Intoxicating my insides -
Of Laura’s blonde hair
Tickling my face
As I lick away her wounds.
“I can breathe the breath of time,
Remove the meat clever
From your slender wrist,
Halt your wheels from plunging
Into the bridge’s underneath.
Nourish me with your tears
And I will kiss away
The purples, yellows, and blues
Reflected in the billowing diamond
Mounted on your hand” … ]

They say,
“Stand up, and smile.”
Our number has grown
[“Don’t look at me, you’ll judge”].
Deny shy,
He’s been here before.
He’s seen these walls,
In a different town,
Frozen in time.
They say,
“Maybe you could eat with him”;
Like items together …

An intervention! :
Daily rates cannot be nourished,
Once a year relapses will have to do.
But, but …
John, don’t go!
You just got here.
I am so alone,
And you seem so normal.
Your nostrils are a forever-ripe fruit,
So fresh
I salivate at your used tissues …
He is just visiting.

I am just visiting.

Topic(s) of this poem: addiction, drugs

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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 13, 2015

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