THE LITTLE BASTARDS THAT LIVE IN MY STOMACH
They don't really care about me
no matter what they say.
They bash and ramble inside my stomach;
howling and drinking whiskey,
while playing Arizona pitch and poker.
There is Cherokee Bill, who is a burner.
There is William Bass who always wears white,
Kid Monty (the morose) who drinks Pepsin,
Uncle John is the harmonica player
and Senseless Jack who leads the group.
At night they wrench and buck about,
Cherokee Bill burns old love letters in my gastric folds,
while Senseless Jack and Kid Monty shoot up the place.
William Bass carves his boney fingers,
into the side of my Pyloric Sphincter.
They swear they love me even when I try to kill them.
I drink pink pills to snuff them out.
It calms them down and they promise to change,
chanting, "change, change," until slipping into sleep.
But bless the capacious coffee cup,
and the secret stresses, who wake
the little bastards in the morning.
And they all huddle together,
atop muscle and blood to plan against me.
Though they swear they love me.
-Published in Ad Libitum