tetrodotoxin

See, last night, I had this dream
where I was dead.
I tried to wake up,
but resurrection is so difficult sometimes,
and I guess I must have
missed a step.

I stumbled around my room
like a zombie in Haiti
and absently wondered
if I'd been eating any pufferfish lately.

I wondered where the rest of me had gone.

I wondered if this dusty mound of benzos
would be a better choice
to right this lopsided detachment,
but resurrection is so difficult sometimes,
and I already messed that up once.

I am drowning
like my skin doesn't fit
my emptied insides
anymore.

I am drowning
like when an emptied house
becomes a cavern.

I am drowning
because I am living off of
liquid and smoke
and mirrors,
proving nothing but the physicality
of this surreality.

This pastel pile of pills in my palm
are not
not
not an attempt on my life
so much as an attempt
to balance this newfound
lazarus syndrome,
because resurrection is so difficult sometimes,
and I'm getting bored
of these rotting brains
in this thriving flesh.

The unlife of the undead
is not so exciting on a movie screen or
through glasses lens
as Hollywood might lead you to believe.

It's just hours and days and weeks of
wishing
you had never
eaten
that
blowfish.

Wishing and watching
and trying to figure out some clever way
to turn off the TV or
at least change the channel,
or maybe a way to smash in the screen
and burst the autobiographical cathode tube
because resurrection is so difficult sometimes,
and it would be far simpler
to leave things where they belong.

I absently wondered how many creeping hours were left
before my next somnambulent commercial break,
but sleep never comes easy
when you join the ranks of the undead.

Maybe it's because
resurrection is so difficult sometimes,
and any day now,
I'll have this dream
where I'm alive,
where that vodun sorceror feeds me salt,
reestablishes my
suspended animation
and I won't miss a step this time.

There is a cliche which says

There is a cliche which says
"I wear my heart on my sleeve,"
and every time I hear it,
I laugh.

What an appropriate aphorism,
although for the sake of
accuracy
I wear it under my sleeve:
directly on dermis,
self-tanned hide.

I could make a coat
from the leather mistakes
that I wear as shameful jewelry,
or badges on a boy scout's vest.
Signs of merit.
Validation of trials.

There is a silver devil on my shoulder
whipsering sweet nothings
into my ear.

He tells me all the beautiful things
that he could give me:
the rubies and merlot,
garnet chain bracelets
that no one else
is allowed to see.

He croons into my ear,
soft coaxing pounding on my offbeat eardrum:

"Please, baby."
"Don't you love me, baby?"
"Just a little, baby."
You'll love it, baby."

Him, fumbling at my mind
like a teenage rapist pulling down panties,
and me, love drunk on the promises--

I cave.
And a crescendo,
oh,
oh,
I'm
almost--
I'm--
there, lost
in the ecstasy of
bloody satisfaction.

Safe sex is bandages and tape.
I lay cradled in the arms of
home made opiate slumber
and I sleep in the wet spot,
with new jewelry to wear
when I wake up.