local show, Vancouver.i put my red wig on.
we walk to an east-side cafe--
these streets are perpetually dirty.
adicts kicking garbage cans,
adicts in garbage for shelter.
i see it from this window, where i sit
perched on a high bar stool,
writing in anticipation of the upcoming sounds.
these streets, man.
this person has passed this corner already
walking the block to busy his time,
and constantly walking to busy his time.
and i watch that one
who i came with
leave the place to fetch a munch
and i watch him as if
he was a perfect stranger, too: what
are my impressions?
he sure is youthful. not only young, i say,
but also full of youth.
i had a friend mention opium this evening
back at the apartment
she said she'd make a call
now
what kind of write
would that cause me deeply?
a sensation i know
i'd never be able to match
a sensation
i'd get over with
as soon as i were able.
terrible euphoria.
the boy says he's addicted already,
before even his first pull
i think about the mother drug.
i continue to stare out the window
wearing my doll-cut plastic hair.
i become my surrounding space.
i see him walking back now,
what are my impressions?
