the diary of a meth addict

stale chipbags rest upon the chair, as my telescopic eyes trace filtered sunbeams
lasering parks of despair, blooming with weeds,
raising my infant
like a sack of apples, seen
through crystallized glares, sorting clouds
    into patterns.

junior has been dipping into my stash.

i can imagine us idling on islands, bringing dryness
to sponge-moist villages, my mouth a noisy cavern
with cracked-up caskets
for teeth, my skin
a peel of decades-old wallpaper.

junior has been dipping into my stash.

these hands are a muscle memory of closing doors,
as my telescopic eyes
find rancid springs
oozing from the earth's pores, gushing now in fact,
kicking the poodle
like she was a beach ball,
seen through festering sores, arranging galaxies
    of hurt.

junior is still dipping
into my stash.

i picture us trampling through temples,
bringing holiness
to god-poor nations,
my nostrils a tunnel
at rush hour, with scabbed cartilage, my feet
the holes of a rusting
cheese grater.

junior is done dipping
into my stash.