This poem hits like a switchblade made of sugar and spite ... humor, violence, class cruelty, and that old familiar self‑destructive edge I knew too well in the 80s. I’m not that man anymore, but a wild poem about cocaine and petty revenge still brushes an old bruise.
Each piece you write is a little grenade of class satire and feminine rage.
This one is a joke wrapped in a threat wrapped in a dessert.
It’s not really about drugs.
It’s about humiliation ... and the tiny rebellions people dream up when they’re treated like furniture.
I reacted the way I did because I’ve lived the other side of destruction.
Not the literary metaphor ... the real storm, forty years ago. I crawled out of a hole a lot of men never climbed out of.
So, when I read a poem that treats cocaine like a punchline, part of me laughs, part of me winces, part of me remembers the smell of that decade, and part of me wonders why it still tugs at my soul.
Memory is a jukebox with a busted selector ... you don’t always get to choose the song.
First off, I’m glad you enjoyed it and saw the class cruelty and feminine rage. Yes, it’s not about cocaine or candy. Come to think, it’s a little bit about everything and nothing. A bit silly.
Secondly, I’m glad you made it out from under the powder mountain. The siren song is indeed strong. Even though those years are looong behind me too.
What else? I don’t want to trigger people by writing about drugs flippantly. I hope people see a little bit of humor instead of just a blasé attitude.
Finally, just thank you for your thoughtful note. You have lived a life and I would love to read more about it.
Thank you. I felt your invitation to the fire pit ... had me standing there like a little boy with a grin, hands clasped, spinning my boot toe in the dirt, doing that quiet “aw shucks” shuffle with a little heat in my cheeks.
That powder‑mountain line of yours… that’s math of the soul. Spoken by someone who knows the terrain. And truth is, the road I took ... the “less traveled,” the one I probably shouldn’t have survived ... ended up leading me straight to the two baby girls who became my whole world. They’ve got their own people now, their own lives, but they’ll always be the reason that crooked road was worth walking.
As for triggering people ... you just be you. I love your style. Some folks live in a world where nothing bad ever happens and assume that’s universal. Me, I’ve lived in the ditch and the chapel, the barroom and the birthing room. Seen the whole damn spectrum.
You write with a sly honesty I recognize. Makes a man feel a little less alone in the remembering.
Dear S,
This poem hits like a switchblade made of sugar and spite ... humor, violence, class cruelty, and that old familiar self‑destructive edge I knew too well in the 80s. I’m not that man anymore, but a wild poem about cocaine and petty revenge still brushes an old bruise.
Each piece you write is a little grenade of class satire and feminine rage.
This one is a joke wrapped in a threat wrapped in a dessert.
It’s not really about drugs.
It’s about humiliation ... and the tiny rebellions people dream up when they’re treated like furniture.
I reacted the way I did because I’ve lived the other side of destruction.
Not the literary metaphor ... the real storm, forty years ago. I crawled out of a hole a lot of men never climbed out of.
So, when I read a poem that treats cocaine like a punchline, part of me laughs, part of me winces, part of me remembers the smell of that decade, and part of me wonders why it still tugs at my soul.
Memory is a jukebox with a busted selector ... you don’t always get to choose the song.
I enjoyed this one.
Thank you.
Steve
Hi Steve,
First off, I’m glad you enjoyed it and saw the class cruelty and feminine rage. Yes, it’s not about cocaine or candy. Come to think, it’s a little bit about everything and nothing. A bit silly.
Secondly, I’m glad you made it out from under the powder mountain. The siren song is indeed strong. Even though those years are looong behind me too.
What else? I don’t want to trigger people by writing about drugs flippantly. I hope people see a little bit of humor instead of just a blasé attitude.
Finally, just thank you for your thoughtful note. You have lived a life and I would love to read more about it.
S.
Dear S.,
Thank you. I felt your invitation to the fire pit ... had me standing there like a little boy with a grin, hands clasped, spinning my boot toe in the dirt, doing that quiet “aw shucks” shuffle with a little heat in my cheeks.
That powder‑mountain line of yours… that’s math of the soul. Spoken by someone who knows the terrain. And truth is, the road I took ... the “less traveled,” the one I probably shouldn’t have survived ... ended up leading me straight to the two baby girls who became my whole world. They’ve got their own people now, their own lives, but they’ll always be the reason that crooked road was worth walking.
As for triggering people ... you just be you. I love your style. Some folks live in a world where nothing bad ever happens and assume that’s universal. Me, I’ve lived in the ditch and the chapel, the barroom and the birthing room. Seen the whole damn spectrum.
You write with a sly honesty I recognize. Makes a man feel a little less alone in the remembering.
Live long and prosper,
Steve
Wow! I think I met her once at a publishing office in North Hollywood. This is great, and the imagery is pure 80s. Love, Virg
Omg crazy if you met her!!! But she is EVERYWHERE 🍾
One LSD absorbent, would that have been more fun? 😇
Could be lots of fun! 🤩
Farewell Sophie!! 😁
lol!!!!!
“A Chanel socialite” - oh putain! Cracker of a poem x
💋💋
😀
😵💫😘
brilliant. love the humor and imagery.
Thank you Chris!