new poem

Justin's Way Home

my life is
weird, real,
and riddled with too
much time alone,
walking home
through dead palms,
pockets of
contraband, eyes
pinned, I passed
your house then
passed out on
the golf course,
woken by strangers,
my friend's mother,
fuck! well, whatever,
when Annie calls
I'm full of fog,
still crashing,
tracing a wild dosage,
some lost hours
delivered me to
Kevin's Acid Cave
before my face split
into small pyramids
and wandered
away, deranged
in the slow summer air.