Insight
He holds his whorly head there in his hands.
He clutches druggy hair and all the world
There. Hypnotized, he thinks the junk expands
The universe, or painlessness impearled
Is forming there inside his long-locked skull.
The fix is not predictive; addictive
The best that it can do. His brain is full,
No room for prophecy. Benedictive
Numbness is it. This drug can’t make him see
His future prison walls, although of course
The habit is a jail, senility
For suffering mind, escape from each divorce,
Divorce from wives, from friends, from any kind
Of complication. He’d rather be blind.