I came into your rehab world on a 4 wheeler by  my nurse junkie dressed in white. You were sitting in front of the tv with your high junkie friends and your lamb chops on a white plate. I dreamed of you on junkie high two lovers blasting off on our first night on a Jefferson airplane high high high. You left me alone in your room 29 with you junkie dressed in white. You were my rehab lover with marbled body riding on our four wheels getting lovers high in an altraviolence night with the smell of perfume pleasure lovers blasting off in the Jefferson airplane sultry it was dope with your marble thighs in our high high high on a white mattress four wheeler to rid rid ride making love in our rehab 29 lets ride ride ride.  

Rehab 29 (Surreal Drift)I arrived on four wheels that were not wheels

but the peeled-back ribs of a piano

played by lightning fingers in reverse.

My nurse junkie wore white made of melting clock faces,

each hour hand drooling morphine onto the chrome.You were seated inside a television sky,

your high-junkie choir now translucent fish

swimming circuits through the static,

their mouths opening to release tiny white lamb chops

that floated upward like slow snowflakes of flesh.We blasted off that first night

on a Jefferson Airplane stitched from human hair

and the shed skin of angels who forgot how to land.

The melody was high high high

but the pitch bent backward—

future memories leaking into the present

so I already missed you

before your marble fingers ever touched me.Room 29 had no walls,

only folding mirrors made of milk

that reflected everything except our faces.

You left me there

to guard a white mattress that breathed,

its cotton lungs rising and falling

with the rhythm of someone else’s overdose.When you returned

your thighs were veined marble quarried from the moon,

cold and glowing with internal bruise-light.

Perfume rose from your pores like steam off dry ice,

carrying the scent of hospitals that never existed

and sex that happened in other people’s dreams.We rode the four-wheeler mattress

across a highway paved with broken hypodermic stars.

Ride ride ride—

the wheels were eyeballs that blinked in Morse code,

spelling out apologies no one would ever read.

Altraviolence bloomed between us

like black roses grown in zero gravity,

petals falling upward,

thorns drinking our sweat.High high high

the Airplane circled overhead

now a great steel bird with propellers of bone,

singing in the voice of every lover who ever left

and every fix that ever lied.

Our bodies fused then separated

in stuttering stop-motion—

one frame lovers,

next frame skeletons embracing,

next frame only laundry tangled on the floor.In the end the white plate hovered between us,

empty except for the after-image of lamb chops

that still twitched faintly,

remembering they were once alive.

I reached for you

but my hand passed through

a doorway that opened onto yesterday’s ceiling.Room 29 is still falling

through syrup-colored space,

carrying the echo of our ride

and the sour perfume of never arriving.  Ride ride ride,

my marble-thighed mirage,

until even the longing

forgets what it was longing for.