Plane and Ordinary

I lie by the waste side,
staring up at the stars,
wondering what my life's become.

Cars pass by,
making their presence known,
but I'm too high to care.

My last hit has me flying,
in a state of translucent inevitability.

Like the Shamans,
I see more clearly when I'm fucked up.

There is no ground, sea, or air.

Instead I am elevated to a soul induced waiting room.

There are no faces,
races,
or names.

No,
we are all waiting to be chosen.

An optimistic purgatory,
that holds us until we're chosen.

I'm finally the first in line,
but my buzz wears down,
and I am pulled from this place.

I wake up vomiting,
curbside,
and gum smacked.

Another lost junkie,
whose words mean nothing.