I went to dinner on Tuesday Even though I wasn’t hungry And hadn’t been for months Or years To peel the scab from a ketamine hole That craved the polluted air meant for the ceiling of that restaurant And routinely bled into the carpeted underbelly of our town Lubricating our feet
That craved whatever was below the asphalt Or just momentary relief from depletion Or the blood from that unhealing wound reminded us of home

Sometimes I’d pulverize my hands Until there was no bone And no prospect of creation And hoped they cooked quickly on the flat top grill With malt liquor fajitas And humanely butchered prescription pills
That marbled our flesh
In preparation for our own unceremonious slaughter And I hoped that my preparation would be in a crock pot Set to keep warm So that no one really noticed if they were consuming or not And my legacy was as forgettable as a seasonal appetizer

Other times I sat and wondered why I hadn’t passed that kidney stone Or why I didn’t cry at that funeral Or why I had found myself on a missing person shirt At a neglected thrift store And wondered how long I’d been gone