Listening to John Cale,
thinking of Foghorn Leghorn.
Might have a fever.
Early morning skull swells,
looking to extricate eyeballs.
Sinuses screaming with graffiti,
yellow-green protests on germ warfare.
Hacking along to every song,
pillow wet with sweat, feet of ice.
Crazed thoughts magnify and pulse.
Scratches on the wall obtain meaning.
Pain can be a prod toward greatness,
sleeplessness the realm of a new clarity.
Push on, O virus-induced mystic.
Hurry now before the pills kick in.