by Benjamin Schmitt 
there is a time
when the fun
goes dark
when recreation
becomes habit
and sobriety is a bit like being high
Losing yourself to a rain dampened
consciousness, winds hurl boards of insight and awareness,
chips of membrane fly off
your brow. In the east
the storm has grown
into a gale
at last able to contend with logic
leaving lingerie, pillows, toys, and games scattered on your lawn,
yet the laugh of your wandering eye remains graceful
the sad hysteria of your smile as well
this hurricane has uprooted your kind dispositions
revealing the spiders and the moss.
Blackness infects mindscapes
red hues
turn purple
before shutting out,
friends perform acts which are questionably kind,
all in the service of your drugs.
The smoke you blow tastes rotten,
it billows a putrid heaviness through your cough
if only you could kill the paranoia the way you killed the pain
with a quick hit, a long breath, and a slow exhalation from your lungs.