pop. pop. poppoppop.
all these synapses,
firing at once in my brain; it's like an AK47 shooting a dozen or so civilians
and it's no less harmful.
"let's save the innocent, aye?" the doctor says,
smiling with his sixteen buck dentures,
sliding out all saliva and prosthetic rubber;
before he fills me with golden obliv-

ion.
it's like thousands of butterfly fingers tickling your insides
thousands of souls rattling in their jar
thousands of meaningful words doused in gasoline until they are, like my soul,
like the poor little hooker who strayed off the garden path to her demise,
charred and nonexistent.
(or were they even there in
the

first
place?)