You’re Going to Die

At the doctor’s
Mid colonoscopy
With a camera
Miles deep
In intestinal tract

On the porch
Drowning in phlegm
With a hand rolled Van Gogh
Snorting lines of adehral
In meticulous kitchens

with inexperience comes
a misunderstanding
Surgical glances from across
The housing project of children

Just swinging in
From mother’s
umbilical cord

They can’t understand
How initial hesitations
Turns to the self loathing
Of addiction

The circulation is faltering
The tips are numb
My motions
My motor skills
Are not my own

Even when I’m pulp
Between sieve bullet holes
It’s not real

death comes to the weak
And the prison inmates
To escape the yard
And drive their Cadillac
Off a cliff.

A corpse
My individual example

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