I quit eating Quaaludes in 76
because they blew gapping holes
in my memories of California days
spent lying on breezy beaches
with a Kilgore Rangerette who
laughed at rapid-fire nonsense
spewing from my melted brain.
Sometimes my mind catches
blurry visions of the sun clinging
to my skin like spicy yellow mustard
and my old dog covering his floppy
ears with paws the size of Idaho,
looking at me too embarrassed
to say a damn thing.
Thank God, Willie Nelson told me
at the Troubadour one night
“Come home to Texas, dump the ‘ludes
do something constructive with your life
like getting high on Jesus or smoking
Acapulco Gold.”
I’m greatly relieved
I took Willie’s advice.
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