Last night I had to cut open a body.
The cadaver begged me not to
But
There's some days I don't understand Even the whimpers of a corpse.
Its high pitched yelp was drowned out by the comedy playing in the background.
The smooth blade intruded the skin.
I saw a tear drop roll from its decaying eye;
I wish I'd wiped it away.

The **** on my thigh
Got infected.
I'm not sure how to
Fix it.
I could try to call
The doctor.
But I want to get
Some help.
Maybe I could do it
By myself.
I can go to the
Circular saw.
And I could prop up
My leg.
And I could just turn
It on.
And the **** won't
Be infected.

My phone rings every night.
I think it might be God.
He must have to something important to tell me.  
Last night answered it.
'Hello? Is this God?'
'No? I just saw this number on a bathroom stall.'