Electric Sugar Highs
by Odin Roark

Drifting nostalgia…

How colorful the high,
The pastel neons undulating
Though fog and smog,
Vying for tourist attention,
Begging producer cynicism to rest,
Hoping media stays alert…
A quasi “Breaking news” hype.

Star Blvd.
The attraction,
The identity,
The vicarious thrill.

The glitzy reward,
Imbibed by passersby,
Made hallowed by marketers,
Adored through glass roofed Mercs,
Porsche convertibles,
Occasional Rolls.

The catch of a quick rush,
“I’m part of that…”
“I can be there someday…”
“I’m gonna be a star…”

And of course,
Lest one forget,
The vanity oozing from today’s stars themselves,
Bathing in the limelight of crayon-colored fantasy
For as long as it can last.

“I am a star…God Damn it!

But…
Not like the sugar crystals
Most of us sweeten our moods and coffee with,
Sunset Blvd and Times Square color-blasts
Are the electrified sweetness,
The highs projected from marques and billboards,
Eye candy perpetually flashing down,
Through,
And under innocent skin,
Ignorant wannabes,
Desperate emotions all.

Thinking about it,
Acting on it,
Or hiding in the shadows of it,
The ostensible cure for the identity disease
Never prints out the side effects inherent in its dichotomy.

Thus travels the impetuous,
Perhaps the me,
The you,
The all who at some time or another
Ask: What am I worth?
“Who the hell am I?”
“Am I somebody?”

Thus…

All around exists one’s own electric sugar highs,
The pandemic addiction,
Even when all that’s left
Is yesterday’s dreamy test pattern humming
On one’s ancient window into the other world,
Where after midnight,
Even the marketers take a nap,
While in the near vicinity,
“Come to bed, Harry”
Can’t wipe the sad smile from the snoring lips
Of those desiring a La La land of their own,
Complete with electric sugar highs.