Poetry of Issue #8        Page 38

The Nail-Biting Cure

My arms are stumps because I bite my nails.
I look great, like Venus de Milo.
My father warned me about this and
I refused to believe him.

Sleep comes haltingly, gasping for breath
In the apnea of surprise
The heat of supercharged lightning.
I strike out laughing, barely conscious,
With sticks and can-openers.
I have no need, I say. I can keep going
All night, thoughts buzzing into mirages.
The moon eggs me on.
That is just your trouble, the doctors say.

Fear is not the chopper with the searchlight.
It is accusing voices on the phone
Hissing and ranting. You deserve this, they say.
With absolute power, fear shouts from billboards,
Detonates movie-like explosions in yellow
And orange. Fear hides in white sound.
Drops of blood spoil the white carpet.
How dare you!

You ask if I have any faults.
So many blips I can’t talk about:
Speedy words, endless night without stars,
Unmoveable clutter of books and papers,
Quenchless thirst unmoved by Gatorade,
Bugs in the brain, perfumes from long ago.
But it’s time to answer, and I do.
Yeah, I say. I have one. I bite my nails.