The Vicodin's in the Car

I don't remember
Why it was I put
That Vicodin
In the glove compartment
Of my car,
But I'm glad I found it.

Body, head, everything
Aching, feverish.
I lay down, but
Can't escape a litany
Of depressing diagnoses
Gurneying through my brain.

It's my throat
Is what makes it weird.
Glands, most likely:
Lumpish, and tender to touch.
Something wrong there.

Hell, it's cancer is what scares me:
Dying,
Of course.
Take one of those Vicodin, though:
Problems solved,
For a while, at least.

Finally went to see the doc.
Nasty sore throat
Been going around.
Looks like mine's getting better, though;
Might not even need the antibiotics, but
To be on the safe side
Yadda yadda yadda--

Not a word about
Refilling that prescription
For some more Vicodin.

Incontinence as Metaphor

As I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed 

That within a small, but potent, subset Of human behavior— 

“Backstage acts" I think they’re called, 

Ones at which we would look askance 

If they were expressed openly— 

My inhibitions there 

Are losing strength. 

When, or where, or with what, will it all end? 

 It's hard to say, but 

Embarrassing legal problems could result... 

 

And yet, thinking back, 

I can remember many, many 

Times when I followed demons to places 

Where right now I can't even imagine-- 

Don't want to. It all just goes to prove-- 

I guess-- 

That there's nothing new In losing control.