Slow Speed Poem by Tiffany Koch

There are no dreams
Only a long sobering
Walking up the path
From a living dead man's house
And on to my sister's
Which is between my own and an even more foreboding road
I don't care that my friends are weasels
Who else is going to steal me away?
I sing my spiritual songs while careening the edge of a plushed up high
Cooked down from Sudafed and promises upon my mother's hoary lips
There were many quiet rooms that bore me there
To the room with the toothless man and my weasel friends up the road from my sisters
Singing my spiritual songs
Listening to the vinyl on double speed
Trying not to dissuade his AIDS laden dreams of hillbillery and drug lust
Michael is talking to the dead man and I can't make out what they must discuss below the
Maddened record player
He is saying
My friend
That maybe this man up the long road with fast music and hella Aids
Could bed me for
Some
Love
Some Crystal
Some pleasure
Some offering of purity
I said no and
We found other things to ramble on over until morning light
When it was time for the dead man to dream again
Somehow
I wonder if he listens to his records at half speed then