There were golf balls in my head,
my sparse scalp stitched over the bag of my brain.
i rattled as i walked, so i sat down embarrassed.
they pressed upon the roots of my teeth.
my vision variegated into hexagonal dimples.
i lay in a downy bed
by the lack of the crack,
the crutch drugs.
my boiled brain cooling off,
the fumes of electrical welding
course through me.
forty eight! forty eight!
he kept yelling into my tympanic membrane.
the golf balls were bingo balls now,
and he had taken a wet one from my mouth.
but my ticket said forty seven.