1:28 am./ I’ve taken Ambien every day this week. On Tuesday a quarter tab,/ by Thursday, a half. My pillow bucks. Crows peck the skylight& the moon’s a neon fog. My love breathes through his mouth—flaming a fire./ I close my eyes to the smoke but sparks remain.
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A toilet is a place, too, like a seaside resort or a centuries-old city is a place. A visit to a toilet bears recounting, too.
Today begins with the beautiful / green eyes of the Gestapo /
officer. He looks /
at you & you look
She doesn’t know why I left the other one who sees the dead was too young to be sent off to boarding school stayed home to witness
My father has this shrill cackle that is as flashy as a pink and white fuzzy bunny onesie.
The Faithless is back in the room with the Dying. A nurse knocked on the door to administer more narcotics, and the family looked away.
Q-tips; under-the-tongue thermometers; ear thermometers; once, a meat thermometer; a Neti pot, swiftly rejected; toothpicks; anal beads; lollipops from the doctor’s office; lollipops from the bank drive-thru; upwards of 57,000 pounds of food; 43.5 gallons of alcohol; needles; the lip of a pipe...
