Divine Ejection

I'll never forget how
(in my freshman year at SOU)
Stout Willie, Count of Bohemia,
doubtless hung-over but wanting to go with me to a party
casually smoked a Nat Sherman cigarette
thoughrily but plannedly wretched
and we were off for an evening of sin

See, it wasn't Willie's company or influence
that really caused me trouble
but that of others
with far more pretensions of "respectability"
(and, anyway, it's not as though I'm writing
from a once smooth-flying life's rubble)

Today, rife with tension, insomnia,
and the toxicity of opioids that don't really
even temporarily make me comfortable
(my abuse partly caused this, more than maybe)

I wretched thoughrily, repeatedly, and not so plannedly
(though sanitarily)
not holding back
afterwards feeling much better
at least temporarily

I think I'm getting on track, honestly,
anyway:
we're all just rain-drops and rivers
AND THE SEA