Postcards from Gin Lane (a.)
by jim blackburn

Crude oil soup warmly fills the bleached bath.

Gibberish from immortal libertine times -

Floats past alcohol embalmed elephant ears.

Somethings in and always a little off.

Delirium tremors are coming down the chimney again.

Translucent bricks smash peaceful slogans.

Blood red tears dissolve into a distant desert -

Creating an oasis dually solemn and pointless.

Stockbrokers feverishly trying to sell the deacon blues.

Money raining down to up-stretched humble hands -

Metamorphoses occurring just out of reach into demented, dirty green doves,

Returning to the masters they obey hereditarily.

The ghost of Abbie Hoffman is giving a power point presentation -

A five day forecast that predicts over-indulgence stroke storm.

Only if the phone is not used properly and with the best of etiquette.

        “There’s no pupil response.”

        “Physical stimulus tests negative.”

        “Has the patient made any attempt -

        At communication?”

        “Leaving the home, ramble on rose -

        Was mentioned.”

        “Consciousness and being are returning nurse.”

        “Welcome to the Health, Wellness, and Rehabilitation -

        Center.”

        ”Check, credit, cash; needed upon admittance.”

        A quick nod to the wallet -

        A swipe and wait of eternal anguish.

        “Card approved!”

        Cheers and jubilant celebration burst out around the -

        Sweat drenched blob of anxiety.

        Smiles burst beyond the point of joy.

        Needle drawn with wild west flare,

        Burn of the leg, darkening of the senses.

        Systematic psychiatric membership card -

        Issued.

        Vacation of the highest order embarking -

        In twenty-first century style.