Sometimes I wish you would
just....go....away,
and leave me
like a zombie,
an automaton,
or a herd animal
grazing in the field,
unconcerned about
brewing storms,
impending droughts,
or slaughter.

But no...

The voice
is not mine.
Can’t be.
It’s as though
my brain sprouted
a chattering mouth
of its own.

I’d like to glue your
******* lips shut
when you remind me,
again,
of how I really blew it
with that woman,
and that one...
and all the bridges
I’ve reduced to ash,
marooned now
on this rocky island.

And how future paths
will resemble past ones,
dead end disasters
littered with scraps
of twisted humanity.

By the way,
(you whisper)
that itchy mole
between your shoulder blades
that you can’t reach?
Melanoma.
Those dizzy spells.
A stroke.
It’s coming...

Please *******,
so I can enjoy
a half hour of solitude
sitting in the sun,
or even just taste
a single bite
of my sandwich.

But then,
come back to me,
when I need you...
like now,
and help me write this ****.