Monday Confession

It will be several days of confession.
I have starved myself.
I have been hard and violent.

Each doctor takes note, takes opinion,
takes my blood and stirs
it in his coffee.

It’s Monday. 9:30 A.M.
The sterile tile has been examined,
the hard carpet, despised!
I twist dismay into the carpet fiber
with one foot,
the other taps out
awkward silence.

Sunday was a long day of struggle.
I ate out of the palm of a man,
tugged at his whiskers and
kissed him.
He had a candlestick, long like a lady,
using its light to sort me out.
I had only borrowed trust,
I had to protect myself.

He became a smoky tantrum,
a raging death match forcing truth
out of my swollen mouth.
It was a Sunday of ruin.

Confession came, thick bees swarming
my tongue,
a blur of black and yellow before
I fell hard out of life.
I woke up to this Monday, a dream,
a foggy span of blasting conscience .

And this is just the start.

Countermeasure

Little Brother Brazen
lives on floor number four
without shoes

the pharmacy is closed
forever indefinitely
like windows
are
up on the fourth floor

Little Puny Palms
hoarded
a wealth of contaminates
swallowing
dosage after dosage
until
an overdosed panic spilled
confession from
his eyes

he was charged
to
green masked men
green masked
women

clear plastic tubes
forced liquid charcoal
to disgorge
rich heaps of self-inflicted
euthanasia

My
Little Brother Brazen
was charged
to floor number four
where Dr. Head
took his windows
and shoes

countermeasure.