Poetry
Mark Lawrence
Serenity Lane, Rehabilitation Center
Five to ten day detox in the flophouse treatment. The doctors gave
me this test, where I fill out all these personal type questions, like
how much I beat off & if I ever feel guilty for abstract thoughts that
I might have...they classified me as suicidal. It surprised me a
little to hear that, but they might have been full of shit. So I spent
my first night there, the place was freezing cold. Met this guy
wandering around in the halls, his name was Sonny. Sonny's been a
heroin addict for the last six years. To support his habit, he was
high, or deep into a major crime syndicate based in New York. Running
arms for the IRA, automatic weapons shipped across the country,
pulling jobs on banks and stores, pulling major business scams...He
did two years in Riker's Island for armed robbery, and now he's in
Serenity Lane to tell me stories. My God! One night in this place and
I never want to take drugs again, this place is a pit of depression. I
piss in a cup every night and day. The nurse comes to take my blood
every night. They shot me up with a TB test which made a swollen
little bubble in my arm. God damn, it drives me fucking crazy to have
to stay here. I can't skate, I can't play guitar, I can't do shit
except learn about addiction, and to tell you the truth man, it's
fucking old. I don't care if I turn out like all these other burnt out
junkies, I just want out, to see the light of day...It's New Year's
Eve, I'm taking a shit in rehab. Holy jones, the great one, come pain,
lovely birds...Run the sky, high & straight, hold a fly by date at the
rate of 2000 miles per hour. The good ship Lolly Fuck. Lift anchor
from a rut. Intake-rebate, good show. Yip snick and wicker, my heart
is a ticker...there's pencils without erasers for people who make no
mistakes...
This appeared in gLand magazine, circa 1995.
