The Doctor, Part 35

It is vicious, chemical vomiting,
the urge is not
like being sick,
drunk sick
fever sick,
you rise from your chamber sleep,
mouth agape,
frankensteining
purposefully to the opera pot,

it is an urgent suddenness,
the type of
human, animal trigger
belonging only
to medicine
and its darts,

the lack of control,
of participation
can be quite sad
unless you
adjust your perception
10x out,

this morning:
loud, round angry yawns of clear
bubbly
mucus and clear
bile,
spasms
exorcising
toxins,

lightheaded,
less Frankenstein
I take
one Zofran
for nausea,
one Atavan
for anxiety
and nausea,
roll two sizable cigarettes
selecting some sticky indica
to roll into the gumless rice paper
as opposed to a drier, headier strain
that could tap
the focus I need
to
teach the bull the cape
and at 4:15 I am
my eyes rocketing away from my body
as high into the sky as they can fly
looking for the moon,
I have propped the black metal door to our building
wide
casting the light
from the hallway fluorescents
onto the black bags of garbage and the clear bags of recycling
lined up to be collected on the pale sidewalk
open,

I am looking for the moon
or any planet
behind the clouds
exhaling long, elegant plumes
from my leonine mouth and nose
like the exhaust from an old factory
shooting lonely fire chimneys
reaching from their long into the dark sky
over Zug Island in Michigan
waiting to be
shut down for the night. v

 

The entire The Doctor series can be found here.