Cracking but true

By Adam Gibson ©

i will wash a sleeping tablet down
with a large glass of beer –
that will get a cheer from
my liver or at least my kidneys
or miscellaneous other organs
that flush inside my blood

i will break open one of these days
and maybe it will be in poland,
maybe i will crack in cracow,
fall apart,
my face gone red,
sprawled on a bed,
looking for my dream
which is lost between the
mattress and the wall

(this is from my chapped-lip days –
you could boil an egg on my top lip –

and what is that girl doing right now,
she with straight teeth and freckled nose?)

x-ray my heart,
open it up for full examination,
make that phone call to the specific radiologist
and let her know my heart is
lying on the table patiently, ready.

i need to detox,
i need to gather stock and either
find my pure path again or
jump right out the window
when do i tail off these anti-depressants anyway?

is the great coast home of my imagination
just something i have imagined?
life is passing.
when will i have children?

i have no hinge to even undo,
i have no ground from which to lose touch with,
i'm eating bad food but at least
i have stopped biting my nails

but i am drinking a lot of beer
but where is honey barbara?
the woman in the trees?

i find these silly paths to follow,
these stupid people to try to be.
if you be yourself
then is whatever else follows true?