Tony the Pothead


Tony reads the news
smokes a joint
bites his lip hard, spins
and goes out to see the stylist;
have his hair turned red.

--It's about time
his inner voice sings.
--Why so dull for so long?
He doesn't hear a thing.

Walking with a new head
within the city's tendrils,
he's a bobbing red flame,
an aspect; electric boots and
a belt that shines have him flying.

In all this
Tony forgets what he's read:
the left hand column of print
fades to blue;
the right hand column
too fades to blue.

But a memory on page 7
holds him like a damp finger
on fresh ice.
Images of waste unconfuse--briefly:
nuclear mountains in the suburbs
waves of poison overflowing
his stash obscured, even his charm
by the images, cold and funny
as in Death.

Smoke drifts by from around the corner
lifting Tony, slightly, wafting him home.