Mystic: An excerpt from Porridge: A Memoir

A friend of mine was a cancer patient

and nearly kissed death.

I ask her about her journey,

and her scars.

And she smiles willingly to share,

her experiences.

She doesn’t drink

nor smoke.

And never will.

But I do.

I bought my first pack on Saturday,

smoked five and woke up still drink

on spiked juice the next morning.

In a daze, I performed my routine.

Guilt washed over me,

Regret walked me down the street

And I told myself never again.

But here I sit, a day before Friday

Hoping to do it again.

Regretting giving away my pack

of sacred sticks

to a vagabond on the street.

Thinking of all the yellow butts

I could drop on the ground and

How many bottles I could empty.

Am I insane? Or am I a mystic?

Hoping to experience the divine for myself.

Waiting for a Hamitic Stream of Thought

That will rip me from this 3rd dimension.

Some intervention that will show me

the throne in which,

my God sits.

There’s a syncrenicity somewhere here,

Yet I cannot find the puzzle piece

To solve it all.

Which is why I listen with big ears

To my friend’s story,

But indulge in a drunken stupor,

Hoping that something inside

Will awaken

In sleep.