This could be the last poem I write.
I have a headache and I’m worried it might be a brain tumor.
Think Woody Allen and remember hypochondriacs are sometimes right on the money.
I don’t mean to go dark.
In fact I’m not even a hypochondriac and only play one occasionally on television.
Still sometimes the waters part and you must cross over to the other side.
Time to make a glass of Iced Tea.
Maybe the sugar will help squelch this aching in my skullbank.
I cannot remember where I left the key and there’s only so much oxygen left to breathe.
Fred Gunn is screaming in my head.
The machine gun rat tat tat leaves me on the concrete like a corpse or oil stain.
We’re not here for your amusement motherfucker. Don’t you forget it.
This could end up being my last will and testament.
The vinyl has already been accounted for as have the Dylan art books.
My body of work will survive or it won’t. Nothing I can worry about now.