It clings to her, like web to fly; it picked her,
like Word wants preacher.  The ritual of use,
to dip into zipper and pull out a shot, 
like a psalm sought, the fingers fidget, then calm.
Comfort connects her senses with a scorched joy: 
spike's tiny-flirting and tempting-fleeting feel.

This junk-life drags, like seven straight Sundays spent 
surly-same: smacks of saccharined coffeeÕs tang.
"Life is pain," her connect waxes dreamily,
between small moves from pocket to product, like 
crossing himself.  Up--down--across--the process, 
slight shift and stir, wastes no energy from his 
end.  Best behavior, careful, do not complain,
'cuz stocks of white wane and black tar's a tougher 
master.  Purity cycles monthly: money-
like.  Whisper of paper check stub, a quick-torn
eulogy, then gone: glad--rage unremembered.

To prick the skin, cold-sweated and taboo-hot,
like lustful old Testament tale's sacrament,  
the push-pull--junk's what you see going in--and 
then, blessed red hurries back, push again for
pressurized rush.  Air's bad so is blue, she learns
one flush-but-cold Tuesday; the short-timer slumps 
over wooden plum crate, one knee resting on 
rot-strewn floor in unrelenting posture of 
prayer.  All fly from rooms of hoary house fast
abandoned.  Lips bluing, cheap works still stick from
her lithe arm: the blend in tube--concord grape blue.  
Mouth agape, last sound question coughed: "Am I gone?"

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Copyright © 2005 by Calaveras Station and the CSUS English Department.