The Furniture In The Way
Every time I try to get out of the hospital bed,
I have to navigate all the obstacles.
First, its either morning or evening,
I have to make a meal so I can take “my” pills,
'cause they are only effective,
So, that means I have to pull back the covers,
Move my body so my feet are on the floor,
Stand up, walk toward the kitchen.
The desk is in the way,
The Desk Chair,
The guitar amplifier,
Then the ■■■■■■■ door from my room.
The ever increasing number of cats and dogs,
Old People, Kids and House Hold Pets,
are right there at the door,
with all of their lusts, wants, needs,
Chairs not pushed back in,
Used Napkins and left over things,
the Debris of Behavioral
Therapy and root canals.
I get to the refrigerator,
which is full of condiments,
left overs for a meal for one,
and the Last Super.
Nothing ready to make,
I search the Pantry,
Only finding a Canned Laughter,
Ready Maid Meals for the Microwave,
at the end of a Parental Occupation,
As a consumer and debt slave,
raising Cain or Able,
depending on your preference for,
blood or vegetables.
Father’s Kitchen, Mothers Tomb.
Re-organizing the Dishes and the Cutlery,
For maximum capacity,
of soiled Plates, Utensils, and Drug Dispensers,
For the Venerable Dish Washer Appliance,
Settling on a frozen burrito,
From the Ice Cold Tundra,
of the Freezer.
Both made in a factory,
right next door to a pharmaceutical company,
taking advantage of tax haven status,
in Cork, Ireland.
I put a slice of sharp cheddar mouse cheese,
and some hot sauce from New York City,
on the Burrito that looks like
a faerie diaper at this point.
Nuke for 1:30 Minutes,
A lot longer than Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Take the steaming Faerie Diaper from the Incubator,
Return to My Room, Avoiding all Obstacles along the way.
Eat it. Take My Pills.
Look for something other than ■■■■ on TV and the Internet.
Go Back To Sleep.
Dream the Impossible Dream and Nightmare.
A very well trained patient until the next Appointment.