10 April 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 1

Out of Sorts

by DAVID THORNBRUGH

I have a zebra in my neck

going the wrong way against

his stripes, like Venetian blinds

caught in the throat

of a late afternoon hotel room.

Is this malaria in the public bath,

is this curare in the toothpaste,

is this my prostate clicking

on one of those digital ducks

swimming across the top of the page?

The streets of heaven are lined

with Prozac, and hell, well,

hell is beer that's all foam.

Drugs and religion both wore out

for me a long time ago

and lately my laptop overheats

alarmingly. By birth I’m a

fire sign tiger giving off noxious fumes

as I smolder towards tomorrow,

and the ache in my spine

is a vulture flopping itself clean

in an eyelid birdbath.