I’ve been up before;
up so early they called it
better late than never.
I’ve torn at the panties of night like
a creeper under its dominion,
but I‘ve never stolen anything
that wasn’t stolen
from someone else.
So here: a story in place of the
final pieces of the poem you were
just hustled into the heart of –
I have just enough time to tell you about Gary,
the junky piano player I ran into a few
times more than I would’ve liked,
but enough, it seems, to have educate me
on the naked and ugly edicts at the last
supper of the fallen addict.
Gary was the guy who my painter
friend introduced me to during
my first real night in BC.
Gary could go through a bar
it seemed and slap and shake a dozen
people that eagerly greeted him
for whom he had been.
None of this came immediately
to me though, I studied him each
night we were desperate enough
to have dial his number.
When every other
contact we knew who held had bailed,
& even the street strangers scuttled off to
warm holes of their own hard won highs,
then? You had to go to Gary.
And it was never pretty.
But I was still obsessed with the idea
of the junk. I had picked up a spectator love
of Burroughs and like cockroaches all
this other stuff now festered in my unkempt soul.
I had a Golem-like Huncke or two,
who skitterishly dashed into dark crevices
when you switched on a light.
There weren’t any lights left for Gary.
I can go back to the moment I
understood the drug when I saw his
life displayed before me.
He had a piano still somehow.
It wasn’t in great shape I wonder
if he still does now…
On it were pictures of the other man
he was. Suited on his wedding day,
with a pretty young thing in his arm.
Completely oblivious to the shit
that the proverbial box of punk
rock and weed were going to
carry into his soul, soon enough.
It’s really that simple.
Then he played. He played and the
first time 5 years later in Uni when
I read Sonny’s Blue’s I thought of
Gary, the same way I do when I see
a grocery store rotisserie chicken, too…
Why? Because one night I had to witness
an unnecessary further cautionary
lesson, a follow-up to the lonely
broken piano reminders that the
man had already provided.
I was with the high strung Quebecor,
“La Fletche” we called him.
He loved the powder like me,
and like me had been destroyed
by our previous peak into
Gary’s living room void.
So when Gary refused,
boldfaced to score for us
one night until, and I quote
“I get my fucking chicken,
a whole fucking bird right now.”
we were slower than usual to comply.
Not because we thought it was an
(I once paid the line of people
ahead of me once at a Tom Petty show,
2 pints ran me 75 dollars all told,
but the experience was worth it,
so I could do strange)
The Frenchman and I saw something
that night, that horror movies can’t touch:
a grown man in a dirty black
overcoat and greasy slicked-backed
Goebbels-Nazi-hair, with pock marked
cheeks to match, hunched over beside
what remained of his victim,
a sad smattering of bone and a few inedible bits
of torso frame; a mirror of the man himself
prostrated and licking his nimble, tar/crack
stained fingers one at a time for the remains,
then, with the exuberance of a ghost-
occupied school boy jutting up, and began to
re-animate toward the door, the cause, the high.
I don’t have time for much more tonight,
Up early tomorrow for once for something
Far less dark and sinister;
A paper on Rome and a midterm on