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Well you're still whole as a poet even if reduced to demi-man status, Ken. Spirited poem. Not dark yet but getting shady eh. Bill On 23/11/2014, at 9:17 AM, Kenneth Wolman wrote: > TRAMADOL > > Little voice like the German kill guys > in The Big Lebowski: "Ve're gonna come back, > Lebowski, and cut your johnson off, we're > gonna really fohck you up!" > You mean there's something left > to fohck up? You mean I'm not already dead? > You mean you're not Sir Richard Topcliffe, > Elizabeth Tudor's prized priest-hunter, > traitor killer, who could spend 30 minutes > coaxing from the body some poor ordained soul > via his cockandballs? Skillful, indeed an artist, > who would demonstrate for the cheering > crowd each stage of his work, > until the victim was allowed at last to die. > > So this new art of the doctor's arsenal, > my ode at last to Tramadol, to turn pain > from endlessness into a thing controllable, > take one of these every 8 hours, > don't overdo it, this stuff will really > fohck you up, make me unable to perform > like some guy in an ED commercial, > like I'm supposed anymore to care. > There's no one here to receive what I've > left behind. Surcease of pain matters > more than getting off my tired rocks, > nice as that was. My tastes have evolved, > I'm a Beatles song, not half the man > I used to be. All I dream of now is dreams, > of sleeping at my desk listening to Schubert, > dreaming not of fucking but of driving a car, > no, not into a tree, but to the next rest area. > This one is nice but I want shade trees. >