26

the age when I went to work one morning,
and vowed, "never again"

will I attempt to pass myself off
as a useful entity the day after

a "let's go for a beer after work,"
unintentional bender the previous night.

The dizzy nausea produced by
angry vascular kick drums in my temples

enough to bring indestructible,
early-adult exuberance to its knees.

I just need to lie down for a minute,
This looks like a good place—

at the back end of my age bracket.
I can feel the summit of middle age

looming. If I go horizontal
it remains in the distance,

and I can begin to slow my hyper-
ventilation at this imaginary altitude.

This stubborn insight comes
on the heels of another realization—

getting stoned prior to work,
no longer doable, either.

26

The once-beautiful hunger-haze
now too diluted with paranoia to see through.

This makes sense. Who wants an analysis
that reads like a cipher for a midnight Subway order?