my surgical eye

my surgical eye can see right through you,
can shred your clothes off in a single glance.
my surgical eye can weigh you, measure you,
draw & quarter you, and have sweet, passionate
sex with you all in the time that it takes to blink. my
surgical eye can see you when you’re sleeping.
my surgical eye will bleed right through your nice
white dress. my surgical eye, left and right, only so i
can see so clearly. everyone in the operating room,
stat. everyone in stitches. ha-ha. my surgical eye
will have you in stitches. try not to cry.

Car Crash.

breakddddddddddddddddddddddd0wn.
highwaywreckage,route#9:left:side,upside-under.
medianSTRIPstrip(strip)tumbledover,flatTIRE.
grounded:out;two[wheels]ontheair,live(battery),
gasolineover$3risingRISINGspillingout—
checkEngineLight:flashflashPhotographersTaking
pickturespickingattheWRECKage,vultures
breakdown(brokedown)onthesideoftheroad.
engineExplosion—ExxonSunocoGetty—middle
East,stillSPILLINGouttheSIDE.passenger:side
DOORtwisted(open)smoke-pouring-out.humanity
ofitall.pickturesPickingTICKINGflickingOut—
tireTreads:see-them-by-the-side,“theWayThey
Swerve.”SunocoSunoco,Exxon,Sunoco:License(no)JN
284X.XX—like-Eyes-That-Are-Expired.Tumbled
StumbledOFFthe(road).mayDayJuneJULYor
[ides][of][march].beware(the)BRRRReeeaakKKK-
down.passengerSide[viewmirror]wheelstillSPINNNNnnn
-ing.allUnitsRespond,AllUnits.drunkDriverdrunk?service
+every+3,000+miles=failureToDoSo=(leadsToBreakdown.)
CLEARtheROAD,nothingToSee.necks-are-made-
of-rubber.medianStrip,flipped,tireSpinning:
breaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkdown.

southern sunburn

each of us an artist, he said
as his hands fell to rest beneath
his head. he’s lying on a pillow
of purest gold, and we’re all told
that this will be his dying day. it’s
a priceless picture: it has no price,
it’s not for sale. someone spoke
of southern women, southern women
in the sun, and then his time was done. it
wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad, he’d
led a stunned but somewhat steady
life, and he’d always managed
to banish all his strife. an artist is each
of us: every way, on more days than
not, and the spots we fall into are all
that we’ve got: when life isn’t cold,
it’s much too hot. each and every artist
is one of us: long, tall, and blue, or short,
green, and square: each a flavor, each
an artist in the end. an artist makes a
wager (but never whatsoever a friend):
whether forever is ever an option.
never quite clever enough. sun-studded
toughs sometimes have their say, they’ll
play somewhat rough, and it’s the end
of your day. (oy vey.) each of us an
artist, like a lover, or a painter, or
a listener named louie, each of us
is, each a louie, or a lois, or a
loretta. everyone is someone,
sunburned or submerged in
liquid. scientific studies
are suggestive: they all
suggest it: each
(chacun) of us
(chow fun) is
an artist.

lotus eaters

i.
the rain is sliding down the windows.
only god can hear me now, only the movement
of the water outside in the canal responds
to my continued silence. it has been three weeks.
i walk my days among would-be martyrs with nothing
to hoist up a cross for. i walk among the dead and the
living with equal alacrity, equal familiarity. this is not
my city, which makes it even more an extension of
who i am right now. the world moves slowly about
me, like a rippling tidepool, like a mime. there is
no sound. even in the darkness at night, though,
there is movement: slow, deliberate, smooth. someday
the world will pick up again, but for now it is encased
in jelly. even the gods and the devils feel the effects
of the times: we are the lotus eaters. we are, we are,
we are the lotus eaters. and love has a place, but it’s
a quiet, comfortable place. it’s in our minds as much
as in our hearts, and it’s a slow dance, subdued
yet somehow sacred nonetheless. there will be things
that happen after this, but there is no great rush.

ii.
and i’m hungry, and i should probably
eat something, but that would be too much
of a presumption. and i don’t need it, anyway.
i want to drop another two or three pounds, even though
i’m already a bit on the skinny side. i never could
say no to dropping weight. insubstantial:
hide in the woodwork: be left alone. not a bad way
to be. eating, on the other hand; too much work, not worth
the effort half the time. and i think i might have cancer,
every other week, and maybe that’s just the way i
am, the way i gauge my life by. a fatalist, or
something or other. and my brain might not work
very quickly, but it works just fine, thanks. and
there are holes, and i’m well aware of the fact. i’ve
fallen into one or two, you know. it’s not as if
it’s any secret. how many secrets can anyone hope
to hold? and i don’t think we’re all going to heaven,
but i doubt the devil will see us anytime soon, either.
i think i have cancer today, and it’s been an alright life
so far. i can’t really complain.

still love

i still love him, you know.
he who sat on his deathbed
and spoke of stories he’d lived long ago.
he who would never give up on life,
who
kept on being happy when he should have
been crying, while his body was dying.
he, my grandfather, the man who i wish i was more
like. my grandfather was great, and i
wish you would have known him, every
one. if he was a moon, and i was a star,
well then you know how the story goes.
i wish my grandfather, i wish him, i wish him
all the happiness that the afterlife has
to offer.

kingdom for a crown

there are those in this world, dear,
who would not hear of love,
who would throw the masses to the dogs
to give their dog a meal, to put some more
food on the table. if you’re able
to see them for what they are, then count
yourself lucky, and if not
just never allow yourself to be counted
among their growingly greedy numbers.
for you are a kingdom, dearer than
the heavens, and you’re spinning this way
and that, with no idea where you’ll wind up.
there are those who would not see this, or
would not believe. but you are
a kingdom, dearest, and there are still
some of us who would never in our lives
make the sad mistake of trading
a kingdom for a crown.

user, part two (recovery)

she never sees the heavens when she looks up at
the stars, and she feels like a dog, chasing an
endless line of cars. the people, they all pass her by,
on their way to somewhere, living their own sets
of semi-transparent lies. but she isn’t one of them and can’t
begin to pretend, her fate’s her own and she prays
that someday soon she’ll start to mend. and sometimes they
call her, her old friends, but mostly they don’t as she tries to still
her shaking hands.

and they never told her it would be easy, they never
told her much. it’s just another car going down another
blistered road. she watches as the taillights disappear.

here she is, in hell at times, but mostly in between.
there’s nothing much she’d rather be, because
she wouldn’t know what difference it would
mean. so she lives her life like a line drawn by a careless
finger in the sand, and she’s getting better but
she doesn’t even know it anymore, she doesn’t
have a plan.

Original