the junk, they say
is nothing more than the lowest pleasure in the pile
I say love complete, free junk
they say they are the rulers

a junkie
I am nothing more than the lowest breathing child, not lovable
I scheme to relieve the burden to the soil
I run in the dark, to the darker shadows
I bring a little light

they see
they say "junkie in the dark"
they say, soaked in light, vibrant like a lie discovered
they drown a junkie's breath
they speak for him and profess:
No arguing, amid misspoken and crude compassion
drift on junkie, go back to shadows

The Pile
a circle of pleasure;
some better because they cost
some worse because they're free
free junk though, like breathing
I paid the gist but
I missed the blink- it just stared into my eye as I was breathing
I acted as I would in a memory, in fact I act the same even when I forget
My words spoke: Love Complete
but they were the rulers, they drift on dollars
sweat lie and leave muddy faced junkies to drown in cities breath
create guilt and draw a hard line that the rain doesn't even clean;
grow a garden that doesn't feed a child, and bury everything in the ground