somewhere in the nettles of PTSD haze

are vague recurrences of the few weeks I went to

high school. 

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 

bulletproof glass.

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.


M L Woldman has a GED, is the founder of Austin Poets’ Union and Editor-in-Chief of Voluminous Crux Magazine. They have appeared in Austin Chronicle, The Daily Drunk, Dwelling Literary and Serotonin, among others. They also wrote some books.
Twitter: @MLWoldman

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