Saturday, August 14, 2010

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.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

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
(Hell, horror is more like it.)
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.