Temodar, did I dream the doctor said
it would be you, not the tumor, it would be you
who murders me? Dear friend,
what times we have had: Lots of good
fun that is funny. I am today
two years older than Bill Hicks was
when his pancreas ate him
alive, as I still am, pretty much,
as heavy as my left foot is leaden to lift
in the Temodar dark of February before dawn,
the long razor strop rasp of a pendulous
slab I have to raise, purposely lift into silence,
as I ambulate. My lymphocytes lie dead
in the dark pancreas my doctor says will eat me.