I speak of thoughts that cross my mind:
the world is chaos, unconfined;
she moves around, and round she goes
like flames around a firehose

I never thought that I could sleep
among firm flocks of sheepish sheep
and yet I’d join the sick poor souls
to wake and watch the world go whole

Medicine . . .

What do I want in these sickbays
primed with monitored medals?
How does it feel to be losing your health?
If I put new spurs on my boots,
expose my profile
reeking of facebooks, twitters, and death,
pampered with sneers and smears of bullshit lies
coughed up in criminal companies,
arsonic arcades,
ballistics’ statistics,
bureaucratic cesspits,
war rooms?

Medicine . . .

I would rather throw my body from the chair,
tied to a table in a fastfood diner;
rather go shit my pants
in front of family on prime-time tv
rather laud rotten vegetables
with hobnob fries and make-believe pie
stuffed like a cooked goose in France
dressed as a sitting duck in Disneyland
hung on a nail in Christie’s
sliced extra at the Worldwide Bake-Off
taught how to ski jump with Eddie the Eagle,
resurrected in 1988 somewhere on Calgary Hill,
than come down roaring
in a blaze of violence,
and villainy

Medicine . . .

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