Ballad of Father William

It's three a.m. I should be sleeping.

Tonight I smoked some blubonic chronic. A perfect, purple bud lined with yellow hair that would probably shine like Kryptonite if I held it under a black light. I methodically picked it apart and spread it out, nice and neat, on a worn, torn, year-old issue of Rolling Stone. I packed the bowl tight. Ninety-nine cent gas station Bic click-click-clicked sputtering to life. Radioactive stupid-smoke filled my lungs as I tried hard not to cough. Held it in making sure thirsty capillary bags absorbed the sorcerers' THC magic. Closed my eyes as the high gently lapped over my brain like a rising tide.

Lost track of time. I can't decide whether it passed me by or I'm thinking too fast for it to keep up. A thousand thoughts, all of them profound, in the span of one commercial break. I zone out for a moment listening to the white noise, television snow as my dumb ears are now perfectly in tune to the nether-frequency where the dead speak...

Earlier Conan O’Brien made me laugh and I think he's gifted. Fucking brilliant and quick witted - and I know he's performing just for me. I watched him verbally fence with guests and I'm wearing paranoid liars' goggles.

I see fake people.

There are moments in this alien advanced state, this barren waste, I question my life - a life less than ordinary and hardly extraordinary. I'm alone drifting along in self-induced seclusion. I'm lazy and un-ambitious, exquisitely reckless and unabashedly unapologetic. God knows I've fucked myself up beyond recognition and I'll probably continue to do so again and again and again and again.

It begins to rain outside and I hear sirens.

I flip the channel to Springer and immerse myself in other people's drama and problems as mine shrink away to the size of Mike Teevee subatomic micro-particles. The numb sensation slowly returns and again I don't give a fuck what may come... as long as I have my remote control and a tasty bowl of “Honey Bunches of Oats."