Junkie’s Feast

Now ain’t that just like a dumb junkie?

Gets himself loaded to feel level, even with the earth, vision right, head cleared up.  Comes in here on a sunny three in the pm, the red dot on the green vein of his pale forearm ain’t even caked up yet.  He orders himself a Mexican scramble on tortillas with black beans, a side of bacon, toast, homefries and a can of warm cocacola.  Heaves the white oval plate of hot food over and clanks it down on the dirty square table without a word.  Takes off his ratty wool plaid shirt and drapes it with care on the back of his chair.  Pushes his stringy long grey hair back behind his wrinkled hairy ears with the base of his dirty palms, sticking his boney long-nailed fingers up as if he’s keeping them clean, keeping them away from his hair, because he wants to act all clean now, now that he’s all fixed up, now that he has his wholesome plate of innocent breakfast and his can of sweet warm coke.  He brushes the long grey moustache off his upper lip, removes his silver John-Lennons off his nose – the old junkie fool, the poor sap – and places them on the table beside his plate.  And finally sits down, lookin dreamy eyed at the bounty before him: warm scrambled eggs, steaming potatoes, limp bacon, buttered toast.  First things first, he takes a long suck off the can of coke.  Then forks some eggs up to his waiting mouth, clamps his teeth down and pulls.  He exhales while he chews, picks up a strip of flaccid bacon, rips off a hunk and chews. Then as he tears off a piece of toast so butter-soaked it sags in the center, ready to smash it into the eggs mixed with green and red bell peppers and chunks of chilies – and he freezes.  Right there.  Right there.  Fingers clutching toast.  Bacon hanging off his greasy lip.  Cheeks full of half-masticated egg.  Eyes closing.  Closing.  Fluttering.  Closed.  Didn’t even swallow.

And I’m sitting here!  At the table across him.  On a sunny three in the pm.  Haven’t eaten all day.  Nursing my tin pot of lukewarm water leeching the final dregs of caffeine off a handful of fading black tea leaves.  Watching the steam rise off his plate and drift up, away, to nowhere.

A waste of good steam.

Child of God

She stands

In the moist mud

On the little island

Of the parking lot

Between a parked Mercedes and a Range Rover,

Smoking a cigaret

And talking with an urgent

Fever in her thin voice

About crucial issues

Of wilted carpaccio and wicked bitches

On her cellular

Telephone

Encased

In ancient

Amber.

But behind her

Is a thick rainbow piercing

Dark heavy clouds

Lit up at the edges

By the golden

Setting

Sun.