The Diet

The Diet


  the invisible priest inside my diet,

whispers in riddles and foreign tongues,

my wit dizzy from the sea-saw at the fork in the road,

the scarecrow within swings his arms in wild circles,

evidence of a compass twisted in indecision,

                                    eye lids jam closed as a New Hampshire storm window in February,

braving a storm caused by a rambunctious tyranny against self,

secular advice shoveled into out reached hands,

the intimacy I’ve dared to squander,

condemned by my choice for a tearless woman,

courage alluded from the fear of a permanent bachelorhood,

severing this cancer a decade ago,

 may have preserved a dignifying reflection,

the devastating truth is that it can always get worse,

the meds lose potency while the pain recruits,

friends just actors in some mad theatre,

characters with no character,

laughing at my wit,

jokes I knew they’d crucify after I’d left the room,

while the ones I knew who were worth the last piece of pizza,

had moved far far away,

to far for a junkie with a bus pass


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /