72 hours in
I'm giving serious thought to
drinking the Listerine.

The ***** is it's citrus flavored.

I can't even rinse with that toxic concoction, let alone swallow it,

but I'm running out of options.

I finished my other MacGyvers--
the Nyquil was first to go,
followed by a Dimetapp chaser
  (the cherry,
     not a refreshing grape-flavored one)
and a shot of Wal-fed
that induced indigestion.

My kingdom for a belt of whiskey--
maybe a snifter of ***.

You know you're bottoming out
when you wax nostalgic
for drunken days
when soiling yourself was justifiable
due to your general state of disarray.

I'm the **** that adheres to the bottom of the barrel—
******* in the shower with my shoes on,
pants removed as a cautionary measure.

Not that life can get worse;
nothing trumps waking up miserable,
sore,
   jobless,
     alone,
       queasy,
         woozy and
           drooling uncontrollably

and lacking ***** to blame it on.

Dimetapp all glistening cherry,
Flonase with its vibrant green cap,
Day old Campbell’s chicken noodle soup,
Scattered unripe oranges over the counter,
How many days can a person lay sick?
Cold mug of coffee with almond milk inclusions,
Watered down yellow stained tissues,
Eucalyptus tinted steam clouds from the humidifier,
Muted television talking heads spouting delusions,
The ragged edges of a quilt around the shoulders,
Enigmatic envelopes with bills within,
Perhaps someday they’ll see the light,
Forks in occultic formation,
Spoons in opposition of the forks,
Bamboo shoots staring from above,
Blush Yankee Candles cower,
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,
Watching these objects has made me grow sour,
After all, there is not much to do in a fever dream,
So I will just stare, sniffle, and drink my cold coffee with cream.