We’ve wandered
into the maze
of the Minotaur—
a chemical chimera that pursues
synthetically manufactured routes
deep inside labyrinth folds
in our skulls
with no way out
where pleasure is the highest good.
“Made” we’re told “to conquer mountains
that wait to be subdued.”
Our Maker—
the Succor—
sovereignly sneezes,
washing away
cocaine-covered mountains
with crimson-colored residue
while the saboteur—
Sgürd—
leaps from viper’s shadow,
a long-legged spider,
escaping the drain,
draining first-time customers,
white powder for skin,
morphine for veins.
Teeth are set with knives,
syringes for fingers
and fingers that prescribe.
Paradise relocated
to tweaker DNA—
a twisted ladder
with broken rungs
rewires the brain.
The wheels of sunken dreams
derail Sunday morning roller skates.
Nightmares of our making
match the pain of scars
that self-medicate.
A winning lottery ticket
we trade for a black bag
that suffocates.
Inevitably, we lose touch with reality
as we breathe in toxic fumes of insanity
while our breathing exacerbates.
The green light on the monitor
pulsates to the beat
of “Mr. Brownstone”
and end with souls’ eviction,
pulling the plug prematurely
to—“Mama, I’m Coming Home.”
If you haven’t guessed it, this poem speaks to the destructive world of drugs, which spelled backwards is “sgurd.” I was motivated to write this poem after thinking of all the homeless, strung out people in Temecula. Immediately, a vision came to me–a person experimenting with drugs is like a black bag, abruptly and without warning, placed around her head from behind, kidnapped from her own life.