I’m a little walking pharmacy, hungry for power, accepting black market checks

False doctor’s notes and general junkies prowling with electric eyes asking

For an over-the-counter fix, avoiding the buildup of lactic acid

Unable to place their fat and bones on flat feet, unable to steady themselves.

Businessmen with chronic fatigue – or so they say- in dark suits with

Blurry stares and always eight hours of sleep, so productive

They don’t even remember what they did yesterday

Much less this afternoon.

They can’t recall who they’ve killed through their capitalism or who

Might have been trampled under the steel and stocks (everything that crashes

Leaves a few victims, right? Doesn’t that make sense?)

Lovers afraid of facing the inevitable: that they are unable to deal with a world

That is shades of grey and green and red, that nothing will ever be

As bright as their candy wrappers and Swedish Fish.

Minor professional stressors fixed with orange and white pills

Cotton sheets and flannel pillow cases.