The media’s interest in cyanide-laced Tylenol pills after all these years is giving me a headache. Call it “poetry of witness” if you want, but you’re still a fink about me taking the last donut at the business meeting. I was reading a book on Buddhism and the end of suffering published by Routledge when I noticed the publisher’s address was 11 New Fetter Lane. The prisoner kept asking for decent treatment, so finally we realized he was obsessive-compulsive.
All the researchers died before they could complete their study on whether being dipped in plutonium is harmful to your health, so the results were declared inconclusive. She asked how much more selfish could he be, but he refused to answer. The book Consciousness Explained gave me bad dreams. Those atomic-controlled clocks are always wrong, unless the radiation has messed up my perception. The shift from my head feels like it’s stuffed with radio static to my head is stuffed with radio static: leisure.
Those are real tears, I cried. Those are real tears I cried. You don’t lose your mind by yourself. We told them we were laughing at, not with, their laugh track. It wasn’t a form, only form-fitting. I don’t want to drink out of anything that’s been touched by the tongue of someone who has cancer.