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