sick 

i get the disease from not using the moon
or at least that is what the telephone doctor thinks. 
(i can't afford a blood & guts one). 
all my teeth fall out so i sell them for 
a red wagon to carry my lungs in. 
it is so hard to remember all the ways
we are supposed to keep our bodies. i forget
to drink water & i turn into fruit leather. 
i don't remember to eat & find myself
a werewolf standing on the ridge & looking down
at the big ugly mcmansions that stain
the hillside. i don't breathe for days & then
i'm gasping & trying to take in as much air
as i can. i don't mean to neglect all these things
but there is only so many caramels in a sunrise.
only so many postcards that say,
"it is time for us to shuck you again."
i go to a secret healing fountain & there's
a cardboard sign hanging on it that reads,
"out of resurrections." i am used to disappointment
so i don't get too upset. i just go ahead
& book a television treatment. something
really loud & blue. i keep thinking that one day
i will get on top of all this bile stuff. i'll just
move through the world like everything
is silk. i have never felt like that. instead.
i put my bones in the dishwasher. i watch 
woo woo tiktoks about healing my inner bird.
the bird gets cooked costco style. i eat it 
with my hands tied behind my back.
the moon is here & i take it in the form
of a little dry pill. the shell tastes like
a beetle skeleton. i walk all the way down
to the place where the frogs are born
with my lungs in the little wagon. 
the frogs say, "we are sick too. how do you
fix this?" i tell them we all have to start
investing in clouds. or so i am told 
or was it buy a tree & dance? i can never remember
what we are supposed to do so i don't do
any of it. i bite my nails off. peel my flesh.
pick at my wounds like a cone-less dog.