Here today,
liver gone tomorrow.
It was two cases of Busch Light a day.
But it was hepititus C.

Is this who I'm supposed to be?
All drugged up,
hillucinating cats crawling,
clawing into the carpet,
bricks roaming by candle light?

All was saved by doctor scripts.
Am I who I am from
this point of view?

Life moving in a
spectrum of gray
sheets on a wire.

The time I threw the scale at Ruth,
for leaving the cap off the toothpaste.
I told my nephew he looked like a doll
that looked like a monkey.

In this moment
sliced out of infinity,
questioning the god of life, love, and happiness
through spectactles like
fine toothed combs.

My daughter,
her smile and terror
from ear to ear
beneath brunette eyebrows.