Apothecary—The Beach Poems, Day Seven

The Beach Poems, Day Seven

I cannot speak
for all writers, but

Ambien puts me to sleep.
My brain, the fittest muscle

I work, sometimes
refuses to dream. Refuses

the slide away
from the world and its shades

of color. Caffeine and nicotine
wake me up,

a near perfect apothecary
for old men, for

neurons in deep
need. Cravings for the fire

of meaning ripple, you know, through
even the earth’s mantle

of tectonic tides. Xanax
regulates the speed

and supply
of anxiety—God bless

Pfizer/Upjohn for their love
of lucre, and their

crazy good luck.
Zoloft selectively inhibits

my broken reuptake. So,
I take and take

just enough to live, learn,
proscribe death—

that rampant, casual, loose
polygamist. I write,

make, write, take—
make, make, scribe, procreate…


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