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Klonopin Sunset

Really a minor act
Twisting the head off the bottle
Wringing the neck with both hands
As if opening a cold ginger ale
(Back when the nausea was in his stomach)
And shaking a lonely green pill
Onto his palm outstretched and wanting —
A holy communion wafer
Obstructing the mid fortune line
He moves the palm to his open mouth
As if to stifle a scream
While the sun sets in the bathroom cabinet mirror
We all know how these nights get
Don’t we
The fortunate
Men prior had to kill much more for this relief
Think of Hemingway and the bottles
He would empty into his overflowing gut
Filling himself only to purge
Gorged with life but not allowed to burst
He could only shoot at empty bottles
With his shotgun for so long…
Think of Coleridge and his pipe
Packing it with trembling yet loving hands
Funneling his soul through the stem
Watching it rise from the bowl and disperse
Growing thin, a ghost departed
He puffed himself up toward theistic clouds
Hoping to get there before the match light —
The setting sun in his cupped hands —
Burned out
Think of Burroughs and the needle
Don’t think
Thinking is what got you here
Thinking yields a Xanax sunset
Rather than a Klonopin sunset
And the thing about a Xanax sunset is
You never see the sun set
Perhaps this is progress
It’s certainly technology at its finest
When the thing that keeps you alive doesn’t kill you
A minor act, really
So small he barely notices
The lump in his throat
The pill now in his belly like a seed
Watered by hours of anticipatory saliva
Growing along the vines of his nerves
And just when he becomes sentimental
About the length of his vacation from the pill —
One which was vividly spent touring hell —
It blossoms in his brain
Like the first rising sun of Genesis
This little light of mine
It must be progress



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