Notes About The Poem
For Tom Woody's "Surreality" contest
PrEdIcAtEd on PeRcOcEt
PrEdIcAtEd on PeRcOcEt
predicated on percocet, or jacked up.
that man that appears, familiar in
a painting, when i land chin up.
i see, clearly, a countenance of sin,
with his back of head positioned on neck.
hallucinating, dreaming, it’s horrible,
i’m leaning, overmedicated, on paper
that i can’t read, i’m a wreck. spanish is
adorable, if it can be deciphered. why
won’t the horror movie die. i dial
the man downstairs. he lays next to me
but my pulse is still racing, chasing us
into the living room, where i file
the deplorable information leaflet under trash,
after i dispose of the menacing meds.
i tremble as i see the same guy on canvas.
how? why? am i still in a state of confusion?
a fusion of reality and surreality. i don’t buy it.
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