Calm Down, Blanche

I’m actually in bed writing this to you on a feather raft
on a roiling sea.  Nightly I wake up and die and then do
a bank shot and the money pours in. A vice slot jambed
up yet fluid, like us. In that old-fashioned elevator time
is a notion of neuter and all that I know is that this hurts
more than all the commercials about pain and its relief.
I can’t shake the notion I might die someday and leave
signs for me everywhere. Even these socks are a sign, my
excitable hair, alternative therapies like bleach induced coma
or pills with sedative qualities administered in moments of dread
directly through the skin via vigorous rubbing. Let’s speak
in Hollywood English.  Let’s find us on a remote island where
the heroine pops up with a coconut and a lime so you are free
finally to do as you wish. Peignoir I guess would be the word.
Or palliative, as in care, with this thing in my heart.
Sometimes the care an acquaintance shows twists
the heart a little up in here or a little over there. Once
I shaved the back of a donkey just to have something
smooth to sit on as I made my way up the mountain.


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