Fresh

above my fresh beard

sits a starvation mouth

I am

slowly

killing myself

on

purpose

just to give me something to do

between the early hours

of

3 to 6

and so

passing the plates to the ghost

next to me

I smell the green beans and

Doritos

while I compile a mental list of

five things

I would rather be doing

right now

below

my fresh mouth

sits a starvation beard

as the hours bleed into

each other

I try to recall

what my life was like

before

I was born

white lights

and delicate roses

in cracked vases

surrounded by

peeling wallpaper

with designs of

purple lilacs

I want to go home again

and I am well

on my way

and my lips will

never touch

anything again

while my fist

pumps below the belt

with God in the next room

pounding on the walls

telling me to

keep the racket down

I will

as my beard grows like daisies in the sun

and my starvation

becomes just another report in the local newspaper