not sure
story should be told
blowing gum bubbles
seemed it was going well
but trust no one
at paradise’s gate
wishing you dead
spooky laugh, hear!
scale of one to
ten being dead
maybe twelve

name change might help
surgically enhance self-image
no success felt more
lacks self-control in
late day haze
personal geological plates
pushing away bullshit limbo
writing new lyrics
sipping bourbon through
an autobiographical straw
conceiving of new history

your life is no mystery
with its maddening song
giving you something to do
rehab with change working
on long island
in mystic burger joint
up all night sharing
joints, bottles of mad dog
early morning subway rides
capturing life in the long form
and mystery of bad karma

strange being born just here
no choice as to your name
dye your hair a lovely shade of life
call yourself sharen
hide from serious evil jackholes
swerving, slipping, sinisterly to
mystical religious guilt like
keroauc, a seeker,
engage a store front palm reader
it’s your lucky year
with twelve days to go in december

eventually all pull away
some no choice
get caught running red lights
drug busted life sucks fines
blame makes you fucking crackers
gravity is the culprit
back away from self-imposed ledges
avoid pointed questions that get you nowhere
leave your achilles’ deep in the sand
get back to the boardwalk stage and drop
old baggage off in the carnie break tent  

Dan Jacoby was born in 1947 in Chicago. He is a member of the American Academy of Poets. This is the second and final poem in a two-day series The Opiate is publishing by him. Read Day 1 here.