FROM JUNKIE PROS TO POEMS AND PROSE

The great, Neil Young, once said," I know that most of you don't understand"

But take it from a psychedelics offspring

I can

Who as a child sat in purple closet shadows

With an empty page and crayon in hand

Finding my outlet as I "watched the needle take another man"

I wrote of family camping trips

entered in through guarded gates

of men in khaki suits with clubs on their hips

Who searched through our chests of sandwiches and potato chips

And all the while on the alabaster colored tile I danced

From a tune in my head by the "Stone's"

Singing, "Brown Sugar"

Which was the nick-name of what had been sewn into the waist of my bell-bottom pants

My mom grilled

and as my step-father tore through my clothes

confiscating his powder and pills

Nude I chilled

Now we all played inside our conjugal playground

While beyond the barbed wire

The shackled vultures hovered around

Observing all from "The watch tower" sat God

As all the picnicking junkies began to nod.

"Have you ever been experienced?" moaned Hendrix

"I have," said the newborn poet.

And I found my own high

My own outlet

And so you ask about my desire to write

Leaning over the worn keyboard the typing junkie answers

Now you know why