Crisis of Faith

Crisis of Faith

Mark Coleman

  The moon fell out of the sky, so I broke it up, and divided it amongst my friends. Each of whom looked bitterly upon his childhood. Hiding in closets and staring at walls. Every imperfection realized early on. Claustrophobia before puberty and love. Struggling against undertows and red flags. Stooped by unwanted years and suicidal thoughts. Spending half of our lives in the ICU. The other half in the drunk tank. Alone behind bars with your phone calls going to voicemail. Panic attacks shoving you to the concrete floor. Sweaty fingerprints filed away.
  Too drunk to draw the blinds. Coming down off of coke and acid with work in a few hours. Playing with the idea of shooting something up for my nerves. Body, a deranged pharmacy. Eyes unable to focus. Hands unable to hold. Huffing and hyperventilating. Wishing that I had some white crosses. Afraid of what the day might bring.
  Trying to find normalcy in the apothecary. Eyes squinty and bloodshot. Starved from days of detox. Unable to keep down even water. In bed, with the hallucinations coming on. Sleeping thirty six hours in the hospital after a three month long meth binge. Passing the crack pipe with a thirteen year old whore, and the emaciated Vietnam vet who acts as her manager. Red beer in the strip club. A make-out session with an ex-girlfriend’s daughter in the champagne room.
  Cold water extraction. Gulping galloons of hydrocodone. In the McDonalds’ bathroom, tying off. Belt between the teeth. Tapping the vein. Needle in. Thoughts out. Popping Ritalin and grinning behind the steering wheel. Buying bath salts with exotic names from the head shop. Stealing hand sanitizer for a quick pick-me-up. Fucking tongue-pierced ravers on X. Trying to crawl out of K holes. Catatonic on bathroom floors. Porn store poppers done insolently in the parking lot. Psychotic nights of Nyquil and Triple C overindulgence.
  Asking the bartender out, over and over again, until she buckles. Blotto without a rain check in county. Pepper balled and fettered. Choking on a gag. Assholes parading out their GED aspirations. Pouring over Bible verses, and simple math equations. Coming out of a coma with a few visitors with tears in their eyes. Coffee table gash in my forehead and the beginning of a nic-fit. Flu symptoms in the absence of a virus. Alternating between The Big Book and The Bartender’s Guide.
  Taking a handful of shots and smoking a joint, so I can stay intent and alert during the A.A. and N.A. meetings. Leaving out-patient and heading to the bar. Sneaking vodka and Mad Dog in the sober house. Experiencing a crisis of faith that doesn’t end. Sitting in pews equating my own suffering to that of Jesus on the cross. St. Francis when the animals refused to talk to him because Kenneth Grahame’s son stepped out in front of a train.