Kirk Pinho
POEM FOR ILLICIT SUBSTANCE
When I say I don’t want to see Kyle ever again,
I mean it: tell him to go cure a disease
under cathode rays in a research lab, commandeer a plane,
become so French that he should find himself a high
maintenance puppy to watch a documentary
about the Flying Wallendas with, their deaths
on thin wires, all dizzy and nauseous, those supernovas
swirling around the universe like the English on a cue ball.
Or he can go play the accordion in the auditorium
or become a muddled sun, the deep bowl of grapefruit juice
Basquiat spent hours looking at to decode dog
and boy, or eat plums from the vendor
who sets up her kiosk along the service drive.
I used to tell Kyle I wanted to get shot
from a cannon so I could tell the story to
little boys drinking lemonade so sour the glass puckers
about the time I was shot
from a cannon all the way back to Detroit,
where we spent weekends we’ve never woken up from,
where God has to stop and ask for directions
As I turn myself in to the authorities,
the earth chases its tail ‘round its axis.