It’s a new year.
Prescription salesman
living in hell.
Make another dollar.
Use your six cents.
Doesn’t make it a holiday.
Makes it complicated
like switching meds
or hitting over fence.
The signs are
all fabricated, made
in a Siamese basement
Filling meds
like filling teeth,
all decay.
And you wonder
where all the
joy went.
Rapid heartbeat,
intoxication,
liquid thinking.
The bottle is empty.
Put your ship in it.
Store away another day.
Hit head on
the ceiling,
stomp pavement.
Tread just
enough water
for the sharks.
Need a tank,
a replacement
cerebral home
in a lonely poem
writing to no one,
all alone.
Depression
has a hum to it,
a jingle.
Some major
malfunction
theme music.
A salesman
sits twiddling
his thumbs.
Take the
prescription. It
looks good on you.
What’s next
is up to God
and the Devil
and everyone
else in
the break room.
Kick the tires.
Gas up the bus.
Going on a bear hunt.
It looks
like sadness
needs novocaine.
Something in
the way the
stomach rumbles.
Feed me, starve me
It’s all
too much.
Just a snuffbox
and a tombstone
and overgrown flowers.
Are you out of luck
Or out of love?
The plans have changed.
Get up,
get going
and good luck.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now at the Oddball Book Store.