Friends
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
sometimes I sit in wonderment at my friends.
Drexel walked by me yesterday, carrying his guitar and towing
Sharon the junkie wearing a sheepish smile,
she was giving him a ride back to the mission for check-in.
the week before she called the police, filed a restraining
order, then beat the shit out of him with a broom handle—yet
it made sense.
not to be out done, the bloody one, made a left on Jackson St.
and took the long way home, too weary from the nightly barrage
of dark hearted shit left all over the living room from a sick cat
and the matching vitriol of a drunken princess slowly loosing the
throne of sanity,
he called from Atlanta last week, shacked up with a co-ed
from India, burning incense, meditating, and tracking down the
twenties he lost when the royal vortex sucked him up and spit him
out 10 years later, he’s writing again—but he’s using ink instead of his
blood. It’s a step in the right direction.
Buddah’s chasing the suburban dream in SoCal, wife, kids, responsible
job and headaches that’s make him cry and wish he smoked dope and
mainlined like Hendrix, Morrison, and some hip-hop freak, he reminisces
about blowjobs in the courthouse parking garage and sneaking a fuck
at Saturday meetings in the university forum, currently he’s doing ten
rounds of bare-knuckle with his eight year old daughter—she’s pissed and
she’s got a mean uppercut—he’s got a glass jaw, it’s been messy.
deep in the heart of junkie land in the great northwest
uncle drew shaves his head and does performance art in
a pink tutu puffing on a beat up brass sousaphone
and singing about masturbating cockroaches and the joys of
being a woman, Drexel says he’s got a girl, but he’s not clear on the
gender.
There’s no judgment—it’s like watching a train wreck. I think it’s
a wonderment.
J. Masuda © 2005
Drexel walked by me yesterday, carrying his guitar and towing
Sharon the junkie wearing a sheepish smile,
she was giving him a ride back to the mission for check-in.
the week before she called the police, filed a restraining
order, then beat the shit out of him with a broom handle—yet
it made sense.
not to be out done, the bloody one, made a left on Jackson St.
and took the long way home, too weary from the nightly barrage
of dark hearted shit left all over the living room from a sick cat
and the matching vitriol of a drunken princess slowly loosing the
throne of sanity,
he called from Atlanta last week, shacked up with a co-ed
from India, burning incense, meditating, and tracking down the
twenties he lost when the royal vortex sucked him up and spit him
out 10 years later, he’s writing again—but he’s using ink instead of his
blood. It’s a step in the right direction.
Buddah’s chasing the suburban dream in SoCal, wife, kids, responsible
job and headaches that’s make him cry and wish he smoked dope and
mainlined like Hendrix, Morrison, and some hip-hop freak, he reminisces
about blowjobs in the courthouse parking garage and sneaking a fuck
at Saturday meetings in the university forum, currently he’s doing ten
rounds of bare-knuckle with his eight year old daughter—she’s pissed and
she’s got a mean uppercut—he’s got a glass jaw, it’s been messy.
deep in the heart of junkie land in the great northwest
uncle drew shaves his head and does performance art in
a pink tutu puffing on a beat up brass sousaphone
and singing about masturbating cockroaches and the joys of
being a woman, Drexel says he’s got a girl, but he’s not clear on the
gender.
There’s no judgment—it’s like watching a train wreck. I think it’s
a wonderment.
J. Masuda © 2005