Apparently, all those margaritas and cocaine
Have saddled me with a profound bout of diarrhea.
Two days on, and the illness shows no sign of waning.
Each whale-like moo that emanates from my black,
Empty abdomen fertilizes the seeds of my disconcertment.
Vicodin would temporarily assuage the situation,
But for how long, and what of after? I shan’t condemn
Myself, nor any free person, to the vicious tableaux
Of cyclical bowel impediment. I want to be
Free! Free to love that which is true and beautiful
In the yard, mere feet from the house, to eat something!
I see
Now, the body, illuminated in a new light—it’s paper-
Thin fragility, like a butterfly’s wing, and over-
Handling loosens the magic flight dust
That enables us to cross wide oceans in search of rare
Thistles and such. Thistles?
But O! Who can that be
Riding up the drive now? Why it’s Hi-Ho Stevareeno!
Dashing as ever! Without doubt, he’s heard tell
Of my predicament, and brought his bong along
And fabled bud. ‘Tis truly kind, they say.