the glorious stretcher,
white as a wraith,
burning in the holy fire
in my blood spillage.
should have gotten Alzheimer's
before driving last night,
with four bottles
fermenting inside my stomach.
one-twenty miles an hour,
so determined to dodge death
that it almost lead me
to drift away from my own life.
the car crash, the tree's karmic trunk
seeming to be all the enemies of mine,
my wreckage is now settled
inside the intensive care unit;
a crumbled ribcage, a mashed cranium,
and my heart's floating
across the chest cavity,
with one of my lungs pulped
to its juices.
paraplegic from the neck-down,
plastic tubes replacing
every broken bone,
several internal haemorrhages,
powdered limbs, severed feet;
the doctors talk about amputating,
and that idea brings a pain to my head,
greater than a sad poet's
poison and barbiturates pouring
down to my central nervous system;
a burst urinary bladder has quenched
the desire of getting laid.
this stretcher treatment has shoveled
all of my monetary to the dirt;
and, now they're thinking of shoveling
six-feet deep under the ground, tailored fit
for the dimensions of my body,
they have embellished me
with the white paint, the white sheet is
all over me;
perfect invitation for the Grim Reaper.