things we cease being

your cell phone is fucking
crammed with messages about this pick-up
that scrip call and those fucking
opiates you might be packing
in two, three days

and you tend to pace and smoke cigarettes
gesticulating
in your gravelly, sleepy voice
about what shit got fucked up when

the messages are sitting on my nightstand waiting
for you to pick them up and resume
pushing and planning
for something better, eventually
after this next batch of fuckin'
xanni-bars gets dropped.

the little noises
and how you rub your ankle together
totally oblivious, in sleep
innocent the way only a sleeper can be
it's like you cease to be the fuckin' dinosaur of the rave scene, jail bird
junkie pusher and future bukowski you are
and come back
to that little boy with a gigantic head
too top heavy to crawl.