Text Box: HI, I’M DYING I have a hole in my head. Part of a malignant tumor was removed recently. I feel lighter now. Apparently, I’ve had so much radiation therapy that I glow. I sure gather a good crowd at night. I get a lot of steroids, too, but I’m not getting any bigger and still can’t, you know, get it up. People say I’m slow. Well . . . of course I am. Half my brain’s rotting in a biowaste bin. However, even though the remains of my brain are still being consumed by the cancer, I have a sharp memory. However, even though the remains of my brain are still being consumed by the cancer, I have a sharp memory. Before the hospitals, the doctors, the nurses, the pills, the needles, and the knives, when I was sick and living on the curbs, often passers-by would chuck their change into my bile bucket. Think that’s repulsive? You should’ve seen the addicts at night plunge for treasure. On a slow day, desperate for mickey money, I’d blow smoke out the top of my skull. Other times, I’d slip a gunny bag over my head and charge for a peak at the freak. I used to be respectable. I was an accountant, with a wife, a kid, and a secure dream. Now, my distant son won’t even allow my grandchildren to see me. Damn it, here come the medics and the cops, again. I wonder, was there ever a time where people took the time? Was there ever a time where death wasn’t a disease? I’m out of time. They’ve come to make sure I disappear.

Dance to Death

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.