Mike Pearson's Adventures on a Pale Blue Dot

The Lies of a Junkie In the crumbling tenement, life’s a nightshade sonnet, Eddie walks like a shadow under streetlights with the jittery grace of a three-time loser, eyes like overcooked eggs, pupils screaming disrepair, he spins yarns like webs, silky and ensnaring. “I was just out,” he says, two fingers twitching, a gash of a smile slick with bad intentions. Rent’s overdue, pockets clinking with pennies, but he'd swear he sold poetry at the corner bodega, Poe’s ghost on a whiskey bender, all smoky bullshit and baubles. His eyes drip contemptuous trust, as he says, “I got a job, lucky break, friend of a friend!” His scabs blossom under streetlight scrutiny, one hundred-dollar bill, dampened by sweat and anticipation, like the promise of a turned needle before it bites. He misses his shift, boss calls, voicemail, static. “Got mugged, man. Some sonsabitch took my watch.” That same watch ticking in his locked desk drawer, beside a crucible of spoons blackened by borrowed dreams and ...