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Magic Pill

Saint Paul, Wednesday 8 March 2006

A guy goes to his psychiatrist and says,
"Doc, I think my friend is crazy, he thinks he's a chicken."
The psychiatrist says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?"
The guys says, "I would... but I need the eggs."
  ~ Woody Allen

Let me start by apologizing
This is my last decent poem
for a number of reasons

Come Thursday, my poems might
actually rhyme (always a red flag)
They might revel in the still beauty
of autumn leaves, fawn over the crunch
of ice, or worse, they might succumb to
the everlasting bliss you'd experience 
should it ever be revealed
that massive cookie consumption
actually prolongs your life

#1 (Reason)
From the Always a Threat category
There's a stainless steel medical device
implanted in the sinewy muscle tissue
below my collar bone that yells
Back to work you lazy bum
whenever my heart
gets distracted
from it's chief
purpose

#2 (Reason)
Come Thursday, I'll take a magic pill
It will snap the thorns off these poems
Like I'm writing with a spongy Nerf bat
rather than a mottled cave man club
I will see the world as it is
or perhaps as it isn't
I'll be less irritable
Suffer fools with grace
My loved ones won't forsake me
I'll attract new friends
(friends who might never have walked with me
along eggshell cliffs of despair)
I'll be immune to the vicious sneer
of some delusional small-minded battleaxe
as I scribble notes in my bantam black booklet
blatantly ignoring the absurdly scripted
patently disingenuous rituals
found in church