pushers/genies (Part One: Rubbing the Lamp)
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To the corner
All the mist and grime of old movies
Same grit and static
And the same "can't sleep" time frame

I need a fix
It's that time
And though I refute it
Believing in my resolve
It's too early to notice
That my belief doesn't hold my legs back

And there's nothing much to think about
And less to take in
Just a need
A physical wish
And directions all automatic

And it's down down down to the corner
And my magic lamps are folded deep in my wallet
And my craving knows the genie's name

And my sneakers beat a path to his smoke

---
pushers/genies (Part Two: The Book Pusher)
---

The haze is setting in
But up ahead he's lingering
Just out of the streetlight halo
And just in the alley's long rut

The first one's always free
The first one's the sweetest
The first is all it takes
The first one's the one you always think of

They all have their titles, they all have their names
And they always remember yours
But so few have faces
At least none I recall

The book pusher stands
Swathed in his mystery, regal in his anonymity
And his eyes gleam
Above his scarf, below his hat
He saw me coming at 4:15
Fifteen minutes before I left
And my name is in his throat
Along with dust and laughter

I shake the idea of a hand
And he leaves it empty, dry
And hollowed of all the notes and coins
But in return he applies a dry tongue to a dryer finger
And goes to his coat
And my anticipation spikes, like a warning
Lost in the moment

Then he lays it on me
What I need and live for
Why I'm drawing breath in strange and uncertain locations
My fix

A book

Old and free of dust jacket
Yellow pages pressed and singing possibilities
Book pusher leads the way
To a place where I can shoot up

And as he places his hand on the door
I'm faintly aware of words bleeding off him
Rippling out across the old, old wood
And gone before I can focus

But then I'm lying down
With my junk in hand and head
And I'm gone away and rebuilding an addiction
In an empty room
Filling up

With words

---
pushers/genies (Part Three: Clinging to a Dancer)
--

The world is waking up
Like ashtray syrup
A heavy flow of ash and grey-washed sparks
Sliding through morning smog

I don't know how it found me
But sunrise has arrived
And it's here to collect what it's owed
So now there's nothing but dregs in my pocket

Everything's wearing off
The asphalt dawn robs me of all my little protections
The trip wears off
The caffeine runs out
And sleep. . . Well, sleep won't talk to me anyway

I have to be gone
I have to be anywhere else
All this imminent reality is sharp
And it catches like barb wire
On clothes
And under nails

The room I find my self in is falling apart
Dust and pages everywhere
Like a crime scene, but with less intent
No motive, no purpose
Just shame and broken spines

And walking again
Some part of me without internal narration
Knows I have to be somewhere

Hands in pockets
The city is moving underneath me
Grating

Now rain
Then cold
Now feelings, all horrible, are coming back
2D, 3D, everything's overloading
Shakes
Chills
Reality again

I'm on my way to work
And I don't believe in cars
But if someone told me about my night
I wouldn't believe in that either

And through this "awful soup"
And across this concrete sea
The rain coming home
In a broken glass cascade
That hunts for bones through clothes and flesh

So I regain my A.M. shuffle
And pause by a window
To leach a little neon
And call it warmth from behind a cigarette

And though condensation has set in strong
Through this glass ebbs slow colour
"Coffee heat" oranges
And "in from the cold" reds and yellows
And something else
That doesn't fit the day

I'm slipping like a flashback
Between two places and unsure which I should be fighting for
I need to be here and now
Stability
Structure
But that's not where I'm going
Habits never give up on you

Through the door
Then at their table, putting out that cigarette
Lest I desecrate the purity of this coffee-serving temple
And I'm oh so sure I'm stuck here
In trouble
Because of her
Through a window
Dancing

Worse than all the warning bells
And signs of my breaking down
And the million other back of head cacophonies
Is the sudden and total silence
And realization
Of my thoughtless state of mind
There's just
Movement, uncommercial
Timing, that's not on a meter
Presence, that lacks a time at all
But goes back forever

I'm in a room, a world, full of price tags, but there isn't one on her

And I'm. . .where?

Where I was sitting
There is now an empty cup
There are coffee rings on the table
And the price of a cup plus tip
There is also a lingering presence
An after image of me
The skin of a brightly coloured bug that needed this world of stories and beauty and actually Being happy
That was shed by a moth
Leaving to eat coats

Through the doors of "P.M."
And through the scalding lectures on being late
I'm at my desk in the real world
No more pushers
No more genies
And I can't see dancing
Or colour
Or. . .