I.
2 a.m. is odd
for a doctor’s appointment
but the phallic paintings help
with the anxiety. “He treats famous men,”
was the receptionist excuse
for the schedule and interior.
“You’re in good hands,”
did not assure me.
The door opened,
‘is it my turn?’
Let this grimace
be the first symptom.
II.
I touched the foil
it emerged:
magnificently molded
cleanly cut
smooth on the edges
grainy on top
a surface for safe passage
a match for exclusivity
a dare for lucidity
But before I swallow:
I stop.
Do I deserve this grand
gift of chance, or will I choke?
III.
Go on,
flush me.
That’s your desperate attempt for normalcy?
Remember, that’s half a grand down the drain.
I may have taken every remnant of joy
You used to have. But it is I that gets you
through the door. So go get another
from that orange bottle. No matter
how much you deny it, I am your elixir
for life. But also
a ticket for death.
So why not chug a dozen more?
IV.
Over | Dose
Once, I drank too much.
Twice? No, thrice
what was prescribed.
I tried my luck
on a fast pass to finality,
a controlled time of death.
Then a doctor’s greeting:
a thin plastic tube
through my nose,
cold charcoal,
down my stomach,
ended up in a glass jar.
What of my tickets?
All to the yellow
trash bin – clinical waste.
V.
VI
The brain is the ignition point,
the stomach – a flask, the blood its fuel,
all conspiring for hormonal fireworks.
Do they not know the mind of a Paperdoll?
One misguided thought, shove, or spark
could send wildfire back to the brain.
It’s a circumferential path.
We always burn
ourselves best.