I have had my coffee and pills. I have not written a single poem. My skin looks good and my mood is fresh. I must be twenty-five pounds overweight. No more red meat.
             Across the keys old upright needs dusting. Kitties would rather fly than be taught. Palm trees aint magnolias and wine isn't whiskey. It sure keeps you afloat though. Bloated like a buoy off the end of the patterson street wharf. Arms flailing. Water moccasins in one ear and out the other. Tilt the glass back. It's bigger than you. The one you swallowed whole. Sweeter too. Thick like blood. Up through the nose and back down again. Take that! Lips chapped like french bread and your sloppy shoes like roast beef. They bite your head off for it. But not before squeezing it in half. You should have known it. The burning and then the numb. Like gramma's fingers after gangrene set in. The stubby one. You remember, that started to grow a nail just below the lower knuckle. Only getting half the point across. She couldn't even mouth the words by then. Stage four is when you found her. Fresh off the delta queen. Caught cancer from that kick in the groin. Up against your jaw with a frying pan didn't stop you. But mama had balls. She wrapped them around your mandible and pulled like hell. I found you passed out on percodan and codeine. Spitting profanities. Slumped over a bottle of tequila and even cowgirls get the blues. I could taste the salt on your lip as you kissed me goodnight. Your place saved by a half-eaten lime.