I was just beginning to get comfortable
with the anaesthesia
when the background music
became disturbingly familiar.
I couldn't make the transition
from sidewalk cafe
to underwater cavern.
and when the death machinery
had faded to a melodic hum
I wanted to kill the blackbird
outside my window.
I need another drink
but thirty tons of stainless steel
are hanging from my mouth.
the ceiling is on fire
I am swallowing Alaska
and I feel nothing.
Elvis has bought a round
for everyone at the bar.
I hate Elvis.
but I live at the bar.
clouds of flame
descend upon the pool
which is empty.
where is my monogram?
I need another drink
but the dentist is not cooperating.
I could break him in half
with a flick of my Bic.
instead
I write this poem.
Paul David Mena
22 October, 1997
Boston, MA
