Heat

I never fancied myself a poet. Nor have a even tried to write one since sixth grade when we had to.

But I have discovered the source of the Nile: I can galumph forward in my life with oxycodone. Oxycodone! Doesn't that sound beautiful. It positively sings. No, I get no highs. Not ever. (I take a meagre five milligrams of the stuff.) But I can't function without it. Not because I've become addicted to it. Far from it. I literally cannot function in this world without oxycodone as I can't function in this world without my psychotropic drugs.

Without that damned drug, I'm just overwhelmed with pain. How much shit am I expected to put up with? How much can a body take? How much can this body take? I draw the line at chronic pain. Well, that's not exactly true. No, it's not true in the least. The line was drawn for me at chronic pain. I can't go on like this.

The call is in to the orthopedist. Can I just keep taking the shit? Do I need to play the old switcheroo with other painkillers from other drug families. Or in the same family?

"Shake hands with your Uncle Max my boy and here's your cousin Sid. And here's your cousin Isabel who's expecting another kid..."

-Alan Sherman

Introductions can be made.

I knew yesterday the only hope I've got is a fucking painkiller that actually works. Oxycodone doesn't rid me of pain. But it takes the edge off like a lovely glass of Shiraz. (Which I used to partake in another life. Now wine? Alcoholic beverages, what's that? I just ignore myself and don't answer. What I don't know can't hurt me.) I'd like to know if there's anything that dulls that edge just a little more. If not, I won't be surprised. I haven't received much good news in four years. Why should I now?

I know, though, that that oxycodone has some powerful mojo. In about fifteen minutes last night, I put together a playlist called "Fran Heat." Al Green (of course), War- The World is a Ghetto (it's hot, what can I say...my tastes run a little to the peculiar), Isaac Hayes (Hot Buttered Soul to Shaft...), Curtis Mayfield (Superfly sends me), Gimme Shelter...When did I last think this way? Let me make this clear. A "Fran Heat" playlist is a seriously positive thing. Those choices are very me. It's not some bizarro aberration, and I'll recover and get back to some normal choices like "You Light up My Life," "Feelings," and anything by Kenny G.

Mind you, I'm still a mess and desperately need to sob loudly with big fat tears falling down my cheeks. My darling Robyn Hitchcock has as album Moss Elixer. And now I've found mine. Staring me in the face, and sitting in the plastic, orange drugstore bottle in the basket next to my doughnut on the couch. My elixer is my beloved oxycodone.

I can slog on for another day.