I’m sure there is a moment, sometime, where
The patient, left with trauma/without hair.
Thinks longingly about the blight, excised
Eventually forgetting it was there.
The ones unblighted, scooped and cauterized,
Aware the pain a bit of it belies,
Then sat them on the far end of the bed
And asked the tumor to apologize.
But tumors have no agency, instead
They feed on sugar, apathy, and dread
Then, strangled, starved, of all of the above,
Attack the organs in your gut and head.
I Won’t remember colors of your gloves,
Or how hard hands were stomped, and faces shoved
I will remember Nuremberg to death,
And remind him when I meet the one above.
The coward in a kingdom filled with cunts
Campaigning on who gets to fuck the dunce.
Its not the first of it
that hurts
more than the look of the look
of your look of it
a moment
taken by the sound
and air of an inhale that left
the room empty
before starting
but not ever screaming. No.
Because it’s not about today
today isn’t for the catching.
Just say what you saw, what your chest felt filled
with what was left of the room if everything
else wasn’t in it.
But as it happens instead of screaming
I uncoiled the curtain
And it opened him up to the window
The wing of a black crow
caught in our curtain
broke free. And didn’t scream.
Just flew away, probably until he couldn’t.
The morning dew was frosty
When my friend found signs of blight.
The merest spot of blackened stalk
Betrayed the health on boxes raised
To keep the varmints out. Away
and fenced to make the future talk.
Such light sometimes is furtive,
Creeping in past smothered skies.
It takes a cautious, careful eye
To see a pain. To feel a cry;
what’s more, a flesh wound
rarely means we’re doomed
before we die.
The damaged tissue has no line
of life. No psychic drinks the tea.
Some tarot cards tell dirty lies
In cryptic chants of reckoning.
Which is to say a surgery
Is better than a broken date.
Hello to long goodbyes.
Two trails converged on a grassy tract,
I glanced at both, with time to bide,
And seeing what each grossly lacked,
Was glad I’d entered through the side.
I only guess which way each lead,
From context, maps, and getting lost.
Such crucial things escape my head;
A fog of warmth in a summer frost.
I don’t think I’ve arrived alone,
There’s footprints here that I don’t know;
I feel as though my cover’s blown.
There’re beings hid beneath the snow.
If only I’d a horse, or sled,
Then maybe I’d decide much faster
I’ll pace in circles here, instead,
Until I’m caked in coats of plaster.
Two trails converged on a grassy tract,
With time to bide, I glanced at both,
And ignoring what each option lacked,
pushed across it into undergrowth.
A pale green scene
at sunrise, just before enlightenment.
The woods around the deck were rife
with magic. Cardinals knelt
on tuffets at the feeder
on the post beside the shed.
The woodpeckers percussed
with verve. The infant morn rubbed sleep
out of its eyes and pursed its ears.
The world was two parts dead.
We hadn’t lit a fire
In a period of months.
Our silence in the moment
warmed its hands and cocked its head.
We toggled between
giddiness and dawn’s
suspended breath.
The chill of waiting
shivered more,
and hovered overhead.
And in our heads we danced
to tunes played next to flowerbeds.
