James Mirarchi

Syringes

While I’m sick from work
the broomstick-butler cooks me up
some spicy vermouth soup
served in a wise old goblet
Gives me a massage
with steak mallet
which imprints tic-tac-toe boards
into my back
He says my emotional toxins
will fly right out of the “x’s” and “o’s”
I’m stubborn
so only superficial tears ooze out
My interlocking cuts talk back to him
challenging him to put some meat
on his gaunt stick-frame
He tells me to shut up
and PURGE
Be a good sick little boy
I semi-comply
He tosses me onto a couch
with platonic syringes for springs
He tells me they will suck out thru my back
any baggage and demons
I laugh
as Long Island Iced Teas, instead,
shoot from my spine like a Vegas fountain
He then drags me into a hot jacuzzi
filled with goopy brain conditioner
He assures me my cerebral cortex
will sweat itself out into blissful contentment
This technique also miscarries

With a pompous sigh
the broomstick-butler retires to the pantry
where I see him, five minutes later, in the doorway
shooting up with tree bark heroin

Of all things
this sight is my cure
and I’m now ready to take on the world

James Mirachi © 2012