The First Time Was Not The Last
i was not yet 22
when i walked around
with a bottle of sin
in my long black wool coat
the winter’s in Chicago
were very very cold
and i never thought
of going home
instead I wandered
the isolated streets
and went into
dark murky basements
and sat over heating vents
outside of university buildings
drank my posion and
smoked my shit
on those warm blowing vents
taking away the bite of the cold
i had no direction
and i didn’t care to find one
because i was warm
poem by Charles Lara
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