Jason was shy
in a way that made you think
he was intelligent, enigmatic
in a way that made you guess
what his life was like before he split.
His plaid and leather jacket
was his second skin, a security blanket
during summer’s most brutal days.
Bondage pants and pole climber boots,
safety pins that sheathed him
like a coat of armor, they tried
to keep the outside from getting in.
He kept Sid alive
by becoming his twin brother,
emaciated and sunken,
malnourished and sexy
with naturally brassy red liberty spikes
thrown together like a squirrel’s nest,
thrown together like the rest
of the runaways in Vince’s basement,
bathed in photo darkroom blood-red light
where alcohol and sweat acted as developers
to produce impressionable young junkies,
where no one could get a close look
at Jason’s eyes, blue and warm
as a flame’s core but hollow,
trapped in a constant pose
of squinting, burned-out bloodshot
veins and nothing, full
of tragedy and devastating
beauty, eyes that broke hearts
when they met another’s, eyes that made
the girls want to save him,
so he carefully kept them
lowered always.
He got the nickname Needles
because he always had one
in his arm. Time the beauty thief
stole Jason’s good looks
the way a syringe drains a tablespoon
of freshly cooked smack.
He thought he had died
and gone to heaven when
months earlier he found
the squatter family,
free cases of Michelob,
cartons of Marlboro Reds,
loud rare hardcore records,
new clothes in the dumpster,
best friends and lovers,
a place where everything
was free and everyone took
care of him and every place
was here and what he wanted.
Now he could hardly pry his eyes
open to watch
the marriage of blood and heroin
take a honeymoon
in the fold of his elbow.
He could hardly watch
the traces of thin bodies
moving in slow motion,
cigarette cherries
glowing with random inhales,
lighting up the room
like falling stars.
NEEDLES.
