Float me a platter of ampules
in place of breakfast. 

		                Please do
brush the grime from your feet
ahead of time:
	                       the old carpet is
starting to struggle under the
dark of permanent wear from
the hallway to the bed,
we set this same metronome
each morning.

	                         My covers are
crusted to my dewlaps,
	                 	                      and I
could use a cool shot from your
cocktail tray—
	                       it might muffle
the bleat and peal of my soured
	                     to chip me loose
from my still December puddle.

I will be blown-in insulated by
cottony palliatives;
	                               the oculus
stalk craned to focus into the
cavernous geode of colored blips
which compose habitats in my
shifting imaginings.

		           "I want to
be a real boy,"
	                  I say in the quiet
of my soundproofed skull,
deadened place where no jeer
nor laughter of the mob can
	              those crowds of we
who mock the dying man for
his dying,
	         we who milk stimulus
through pert voyeurism at the sad
throes of human wretchedness.

                     with a favorable mixture
of your silvered anesthetics I'll
log-roll from my sleep,
             		                out of
my dermis,
	                 and into a pasture
thronged by formerly unhappy
icons who have attained high
enlightenment by synergistic
mood enhancers.

	                      Can I now eat
my first meal from within the com-
forting capsule of my caterpillar
                     where I will outmaneuver
all the insufferable raindrops?

I generally weep in foul weather.