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
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