Burying the Hatchet

I wanted the pain to go away,
so I let them stick me. No luck.
I still feel rotten, and now my head,
deliciously empty for decades, is
clogged with thoughts of dying.
I'm doomed. I'm a goner. Forget it.
I'm riding the rails of deterioration,
I know it. Soon I will be boneless
and alone. But I am not alone.
Not yet. In the other room,
my mother is wrestling a mongoose.
Between rounds, she sits on a
radio instead of a chair. I can't
quite hear what is playing, so
I say, “Turn it up. Turn it up.”
A fireman holding an ice pick
adjusts the volume. The Chemical
Brothers appear on the Jumbotron.
Australia secedes from the U.N.