Maybe the hairs on my arms will go gray someday
and my skin will lose its oil and my eyelashes flatten

Might make sense, with all the tension I inflict on my muscles
and all the coffee I choose over meats,
the way I feel the switches in my brain becoming splotches on my upper lip,
indecisive ramblings foaming at the rim

Could happen like it does in sci-noir:
psychotropic answers turning out to be, overtly,
overkill, in sequence

My pulling and tugging and insistence on gritting my teeth
and making sure some knuckles form ninety degrees –
all my questions about morphological uncertainties –

could give way to bony, sometimes giddy swaying,
or rigid calm, ditching inner-ear aches,
pouring lime on second guesses,
moving towards (like verbal clockwork? or sub-stratospheric fuzz?)
a dulling

Written in 2009.