Poetic Junkies

by K. T. Dibert

Original KYLE T. DIBERT, DECEMBER 20th, 2017:

…shooting up the veins of the heart city, – a hundred miles an hour – as a a good junkie does well, and I can tell, that, despite admiration, I am fated for hell & yet oh well I don’t mind where all the ground fell while I was staring up at you through this miraculous well, and you were bankrupt before you decided to sell, and at your coffin, coughing casualties at commiserating children kissing flowers, praying by the hour, to not tower thus so high that one falls and usurps vitality, – power which dwindles stale & dwindles thus more sour; as if in high

school the popular kids like Ben Howard had a soul in which to hang their spirit, whether they wished to hear it or not, they had that which couldn’t be bought; that shan’t be taught; and that which shall nay linger like incest, yet burns bright like a lantern, in hand, a criminal with light-up shoes, awaiting the day to be intelligibly caught, by missing the board but making the dot, whether the time fades, the youth & charades, gently streaming, disipates and further fades, as Time decidedly attenuates, as we breathe all the air and oxygen and the carbon all burns and we all take turns poking sticks at the the cockroaches in an urn until we still can’t learn, as you like, lost-child, do yearn & fortunately for one, doth pine, doth lose the time, with a hundred dollar bottle of cheap wine, a dinner for two but only one dined: & I’m late for the page, guess it warn’t College-lined — been telling you all this whole fucking time, it ain’t me it’s mine; and it not the brain, it’s the mind; and, – consequently – it’s polite it is just kind that the woman who paid for the gas can, the gentleman who decided to cover the gas, & this lil’ nigga put $15 dollars gas in the tank – most dank – the car – most rank – more marine that the sea, and it is only when you’re lost in an ocean of Lonesome tears, alone amidst the tides of time, and riding wave by wave awaiting one more innocent soul to save; it isn’t the infantry commander whom is brave, it is not the adventurer whom doth rant, rave & it is not the child within, in this life, you must save!

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