Anchored In

He had to have weighed at least five hundred pounds.
I despised him but he sold me my first hits of acid and didn't try to make small talk.
The dusty television atop a stack of orange milk crates provided the only light source in his father's dank cellar. He was watching sports highlights and refused to look at me when I said hello so I tossed a bill on the makeshift coffee table between the fifteen empty, half gallon iced tea cartons. He slid a small piece of paper toward me, keeping his attention on the television. I told him to double up on the blotter tab for free and extended my hand with an blank face.
Two for the price of one.
He complied nervously placing the drugs in my sweaty palm and let out a hideous grunt while struggling to lift his mammoth frame up from the couch. He wanted to say something, I felt it, but wisely kept his mouth shut. A wash machine somewhere in a dark corner of the basement rattled. I wondered how long he'd be able put up with himself down there in his drug dungeon.
With a fist closed firmly around the drugs, I bolted out of the house and left the the slumped over dope pig to his misery and sports bloopers.
It was night before a holiday, I don't remember which one, maybe Thanksgiving. I still lived in that shithole town that I still bare scars from.
Stoic.
The Hopeless
Land of Consumer Opportunity.
The rush hour, traffic jam, heartburn, capital of the great Northeast.
On my way back to my empty apartment I dropped the acid at a red light, the same light where I was once sprayed the face with gasoline and then hit by a car many years before.
Destroy.
Move on.
Forget.
While chewing on the LSD soaked blotter paper like a finger nail, I walked into my apartment and took a seat on the my broken chair, the only one I owned, to stare out the window until the poison took effect. The hundreds of overfed and ungrateful mothers, fathers and children in all adjacent apartments where by this time fast asleep and completley oblivious to the vile plotting of their neighbor, the young anarchist.
Resting before yet another day of playing those god damned Rat Games.
The perilous pursuit of 'happiness'.
Piss on it all.
If you've ever been tortured
or left for dead
you'd know to never make the tragic mistake
of believing in safety and order.
Sleep well.
Debt awaits.
But not me. I woefully wandered through my disgusting one bedroom second floor home like some widower's ghost; picking up dirty clothes and rearranging garbage and junkmail and books and whatever I had the strength to pick up until a knock at at my front door nearly stopped my heart. I'd drunkenly invited a couple of friends of friends whom I barely knew back to my place to drop acid earlier that night and somehow completely forgot.
"How you feelin' man?" One of them, a known psychopathic drug addict, asked me while entering the apartment. I paused for a second to find out if the shit had kicked in yet.
"Normal. I don't like it. Let's get some air."
We stood in silence on the balcony staring at the moon with the orchestra of insects and foxes bellowing from the forest. One of the guys jokingly pretended to jump from the banister and interrupted my deep concentration. I was thinking about high school and mass burials, praying for forgiveness, praying for the drugs to fix me.
Then all at once, with no warning or remorse, it stuck me like lightening. Boom.
I let go.
My mouth and eyes opened as wide as possible and I lost my sense of sound. The crickets stopped, the moon sprinted across the sky and disappeared, and I was resurrected.
The evil hands of LSD clutched my throat with a murderess grip and catapulted my body into the deep space.
Cannonball into oblivion.
"Are you alright, dude?" is what I think someone said.
"Have you ever wanted to write a song in the sand on the surface of the moon?"
I mumbled to the audience. I knew at that point to keep my mouth shut.
Lucy grabbed me and cradled me like a newborn. She sung softly into my bleeding ear:
"Burn away.
Burn away.
Bombs away.
Come with me.
Ride the wings of the Blacks Swans
of poison pond.
Purple and
White dust
"We're here for your heart"
Zero Gravity Love
Free Fall Romance
It's OK if you can't dance.
No Reality
No Words
No God;
Just Drugs."

The sirens had stopped. Someone out on Pluto or Saturn had called of the manhunt. I was free and terrified at what freedom implied. For twelve straight hours I stared at a yellow wall in penance, giving thanks. I don't remember when or why my guests left. I didn't care, couldn't have even if I wanted to.
I left my chains and shackles in the bath tub with the rest of my clothes and danced nude to the sound snoring neighbors and house pets throughout the rest of the night.
"Do you self a favor, become your own savior" it read on a poster above the broken television.
It pays to have friends in high places.