Wednesday, September 9, 2009

A Plea for Surcease

Can you help me find a cure for my myriad
allergies, please? You see junk mail makes
me nuts, fills my nose with phlegm so thick
and full of gunk I can't think, forget what
my girlfriend's rich breath smells like,

it used to remind me of the scent
of that fun color-- pink.

Hives burst from my splotched up face
like ripe berries or volcanoes on the make
and man they itch so bad--
it's like a bus on crack trashed my old man's
drought tolerant front yard, overran his pad.

Can't you see, it's hard to stop the mail,
every day he brings me more, it's a living
fucking jail,

but with your aid this time maybe I won't fail
to breathe deep, sleep straight through
the silent night again.


Send your checks or cash by US Mail
to P.Lautz c/o SD County Jail
and you shall be wrapped within
my prayers for nearly as many years
as this cure and your kind sure acts
prevail and my hard won health persists,

(in this, a loving dovetail of dermatological release)

ps--each day when awakened by the postman's steps and stumbles,
I thank god my jailhouse bunkmate is a stone blind deaf dumb bumbler
and junk mail ain't yet printed up in braille or downloaded onto ipods
for the sightless hearing impaired ones.

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