somewhere in the nettles of PTSD haze
are vague recurrences of the few weeks I went to
The school was built by an architect who specialized
in prisons, and it showed.
Great brutalist cement slabs jutting to unforgiving metal doors,
where all dreams of bright futures were tempered by
and out in the courtyard for lunch all the students
lined up to get acid from Jacob Hall,
the dealer dujour.
I used my lunch money to trip,
swallowed by skulls during
my study period and I walked home
dreaming of the metatextual novels I would never write.
the suburban subdivision was newer than me so I walked the angles of road with assurance.
heaps of dirt at the Austin city limits
edged the construction of a cowering paradise.
Once home I would always read Hunter S. Thompson
because that’s what you do when you’re high and 14
and of a particular mindset. And I would fantasize about all
the awful things I would get up to as soon as I was able.