| motorcyclist in critical condition after crash. |
[25 Aug 2011|01:09pm] |
|
[can you feel this can you
feel this can
you feel
this?
how about this?
here, this is cold. do you feel it on your face? okay. how about here?
no? sharp or dull sharp or dull sharp or dull sharp or
dull.
only burning. he feels burning burning burning, down into
his
legs, down into his
finger tips. into his
back.
the burning stops - nothing.
how fast were you going?
did you lose consciousness?
can you feel this can you can you can you
can not.
can not feel
can not move
stable stable stable stable stable
can not
stable
can not
breathe
intubate]
|
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| gastrojejunostomy |
[05 Feb 2011|03:13pm] |
pulling her bed towards
post anesthesia care, we encourage in those over
bright
over loud Doctor Voices
;you did wonderfully, wonderfully;
drowsy and taken aback she murmurs
;thank you;
the kind of awkward acknowledgment
people provide when you congratulate them
on winning a door prize
;everything is better now;
someone provides -
[and i wince, standing behind her carrying her chart
as i read the words that liquefy
even the strongest of insides-
unresectable.
we can not divide, we can not excise,
we can not lift away everything, madame,
that eats at you. we have laid down our knives,
in a humbled rage, before something that operates
on a scale unimaginable to our thick butcher fingers
and our science-kit microscopes
there is no plane,
where we can grasp the free edge
and pull off our suffering]
;let me breathe; she repeats
;let me breathe;
and we foolishly assume it is us
she is bargaining with,
reassuring her that she is in fact
breathing and with us here
alive
;let me breathe;
[as she remembers slowly
her role in this undertaking,
what it is that she did wonderfully at -
retreating to that smallest and secretest place
and willing the machinery of her body to
let her breathe,
let her breathe
while we unresected
the unresectable]
;you did wonderfully;
|
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| pedicle |
[18 Dec 2010|10:07pm] |
he keeps these pictures
tacked up in his office wall.
oh how nice,
his colleagues say, when they see the
grotesque cubist renderings of lips
one pulled down misshapen eye.
that papier mache project -
last minute transposition of an already drying clump
from the leg
to cover a hole in the face.
in these hideous visages;
drawn with crayons gripped tightly,
coloured outside of the lines, cut and patched
together
scissors shaking slightly;
he sees love.
armfuls of dandelions plucked from the neighbours lawn,
put into glass jam jars on the table -
those baby birds they relentlessly tried to keep alive
in shoeboxes full of cotton, wide mouths exclaiming
look, daddy, look as the seeds they planted
in styrofoam cups
slowly pushed upwards towards the sun.
a beautiful thing, this;
his children, learning.
|
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| vasco da gama |
[27 May 2010|01:11pm] |
it was you
who was unsatisfied
with the surroundings.
hearing whispers in the bloodstream;
of the secret calculations of those aged
magi, that far away country of the brain
the romance and twilight boating
down the hepatic sinusoids;
the skilled builders, constructing marvel after marvel
reaching upwards and outwards into
the depth of space
from the rarefied atmosphere
of my skin
mysterious company of foreigners; those one-celled immigrants
who don't even remember when they arrived here
cooking away in their strange kitchens; methane
sulfur. the pestilential stench
of Otherness, in the dark, spicy loops of
bowel.
and so quietly you waited, until the day arrived
where you sang these stories,
of these lands; awaiting
and you summoned the young ones,
you departed -
[and it was not enough for you
to poison just us, with your Dreams.
in each of these countries, these islands of my
scaffolding, you preached your gospel;
multiplying, multiplying,
dividing]
|
|
| numbers |
[03 May 2010|12:07am] |
in 30 days
none of the skin on my hands
will be the same.
in 120 days
none of the blood i had
will be the same.
in 6 months
all of the shimmering green
will bleed slowly
into blackness.
in 7 years
every atom in my body
all of those vibrating, racing spheres
will have oozed out;
extruded
[her green dress a picture,
ground up with that cast off snakeskin
into sick black dust]
[each one of you breathing her death
in
your scaffolding held up by the
stench of kabul and burning
flesh]
|
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| scotoma |
[02 May 2010|11:52pm] |
they started coming on when i try to sleep -
shimmering green triangles, dancing in and out
in and out of the blackness.
then when i got tired -
leaves, forests - dancing vines in heat haze jungles
growing steadily into the corners of my eyes
once, when madigan was driving the truck
his arm started to go green, this creeping paint blot
covering him like he was the fucking hulk
or something.
they stay all the time now.
every morning, they eat away a little bit more
what i can see, circled by these changing
changing green shapes,
the pinhole getting smaller
kaleidoscope hell.
the fucking irony?
nothing is green here. in this dust storm shit hole,
nothing grows. there is no water.
nothing would want to grow.
sparkling green stars;
resplendent foliage - [i prefer
this blindness
to anything i could hope to see.]
|
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| fault line |
[02 May 2010|11:38pm] |
we jumped out as fast as we could -
lay flat on our stomachs, eyes tightly shut
(dying, like kissing, is best done with eyes closed.
the eyes-open camp - too curious, not enough imagination.
bored.)
until everything stopped trembling and the heaving burning road
lay still, warm.
metallic.
i got up first, sea legs bending ears ringing
and i saw her.
small fists clenched, green dress
goldbrown hair, matted
snot, a shiny slick river running from her nose -
detour across her face
still the wetness on her hand where she tried to wipe it away.
6, maybe 7?
eyes, brown and wet - staring fixed.
(too curious? not enough imagination?)
one yellow flip flop, still on her right foot.
unmarked, no sign of that roiling burning wave of death
i had just thrown at her house
touching her. except for that missing flip flop.
i heave and heave and the bitter sour burn of sludge
soaks a dark wet round into the dust;
sulfur rain onto an arid mars
|
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| falaq |
[19 Mar 2010|03:49pm] |
beckon them, bilal
in the sweet coldness of dawn -
the slow liquid limbed rise into the yet
dark, the faithful waiting
until the golden orb, al shams
rises dripping from her bath in the molten horizon;
throw your voice, bilal
deft and precise fingers reaching
into the bluegreen depths of slumber
to pick up the dropped threads
of His infinite tapestry
sing to them, bilal
to the rolling sands of the empty quarter
let your soaring descant beckon the
salt and tumult of the sea,
the very violence of monsoons
to come and kneel, before their
Architect
testify, bilal
into the shimmering dawn,
to our sweet unity within His
limitless ocean;
let your voice be the cool earthen jar
in which our songs are carried
to Him
|
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| echolocation |
[27 Jan 2010|12:11pm] |
insidious membrane
thousands of steel needle-trees
growing into my flesh
anchoring, stitching seamlessly
Itself
to the deftly woven redgold silk of
Myself
[and i can still hear you
underwater
encapsulated, like
this.
and some light filters through
aqueous, refractive
but here in the
benthic zone, we keep the golden
syrup of time, crystalline
cold
in suspension within the slow pulses
of blue green blood and
primordial skin]
|
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| blunt trauma |
[31 Oct 2009|05:03pm] |
greenblue turquoise gem, your
eye ball - vitreous frozen against the autumn
a ripe drop of ocean, dangled by a fine electric string
you lie like i sleep, arms stretched out
both knees separate
and teeth, fine needlepoint fangs,
bared against the tyres
sent to gather you away
velvet shimmer of fur,
orange and gold stripes; dazzling
under the sodium vapour of night
looking common and roadblown in the
morning light.
|
|
| diurnal |
[28 Oct 2009|01:07am] |
when we were fruit;
round and golden
healing every ailment,
firm flesh taut - eager
the first bite the best bite,
just begging your outstretched arm to
catch us,
twist and pull so that we fell
yielding into the hollow
of your palm
when we were fruit;
you loved us best.
[but i,
i hung near the highest branches, and you
you would not climb.
and so now, a spent seed pod,
husk and fiber
withered in the very sun that once burnished me
radiant;
now a holding bay;
i watch your steel divide
resect, most precisely
all that is left -
and i
heartless, empty
viscerally excised -
i fall to the earth and crumble;
my dust
clinging to your feet]
|
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| kadal |
[12 Sep 2009|08:50am] |
|
even in this drop of water
in the beginning, there was lightning;
churning us -
molecular,
from the sea. arcing until we swam,
chains of wonder, shimmering.
oil on pavement.
(floating, silk
in the salt sweet liquor of your warmth, we began to create.
embroidering our mechanisms;
shuttling in, out
up, down, left, right, together
and apart
the machinery of our souls
every best patent,
current working model,
drafted within the weight of your
sea.)
crawling into the incandescent heat
of the sun, lying - drying
in radiant starlight,
we --
transforming the very
sea into the heat of our
fat and the salt
of our blood.
into the salt of our blood.
|
|
| embryogenesis |
[08 Sep 2009|02:07pm] |
i am tasting my world,
its fragments. i am consuming the dust around me, the grit of chalk
and sweet fruit poison of gasoline;
i eat my world so that you might,
also.
inhabiting the secretest of
distributions. theoretical spaces.
you i grew;
red corded roots burrowing into my
polluted front yard. a torn slurpee cup; cigarette butts.
the unsavoury clay of my people.
ripening on your greedy stalk, folding and folding.
|
|
| message |
[23 Jun 2009|12:43am] |
i am not passionate about science, like i am passionate about people.
it is just that simple.
(why was this never so clear before?)
|
|
| willow |
[11 Jun 2009|11:31pm] |
for eight days you were loved;
to the sound of rushing rivers you were swung, swung,
on long arms (green veins and a small cross,
church names faded from scars)
for eight days you were loved, and i spoke your name
soaking my voice in the rushing river, bending it clean -
green willow of our sounds;
for you i remembered and wove again
[and now you swing, swing
clocks, metronomes, power lines can not whisper at
your desire for flight; you a wickerwork vessel
trying to catch the updraft; to swing swing
air flowing fast underneath your suspension bridge
hip bones
away]
for eight seconds you flew until those rushing red rivers
of your blood dragged you down;
green willow fingers fluttering, earth pulling on
the smooth white bones of your spine;
swing, swing
(swing.)
for eight minutes they poured air into your lungs
they sang into your ears to wake you -
pushing and pushing on the elegant basketwork of your
ribs, calling your name.
but
you had swung, swung
away.
[we will wrap you in birch bark -
cutting every rope binding you to the ground;
swing, swing
long black hair flying westward into the wind,
there you have been - there you long to return]
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| bardo |
[29 Mar 2009|01:33pm] |
from where i was brought first COMMA
return me STOP
dont forget to close all of the doors especially
the front gate COMMA and
bring water COMMA i am unbearably thirsty STOP
face my feet towards the south STOP
without a compass COMMA i cant find the way
easily STOP
after the fire COMMA please break a hole
in my skull so i can get out and start walking
south STOP
put my dust into the sea COMMA this alone
can quench the terrible terrible heat STOP
this COMMA
is the end of the beginning STOP
from where i was brought first COMMA
return me STOP
|
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| dialectic therapy |
[27 Mar 2009|09:24am] |
hey lady,
we've come to look at your disease.
i am a first year medical student and i will be taking
your history today, i hope you don't mind
its pretty damn contagious so we're all wearing masks
and hand-sanitizing every few seconds - (i should wash my
coat in bleach when i get home - should i alcohol swab my stethoscope,
what way does it go in my ears again?)
where are you from? where did you live before then? how many children do you have?
wasting time, because we already know what you have.
we learned it in class. your people all seem to have it - endemic.
triple therapy, you'll probably stop taking it, spread it around again.
oh, it must be hard for you, being here away from your children
i hope my mom made a good lunch for me today. its such a long day,
seeing this patient. its hot in here, when can i go outside and take off my mask,
shouldn't have worn high heels, my feet hurt... i'm so tired.
how much weight did you lose? was it a pulling pain, or a stabbing pain? on a
scale of 1 to 10, 1 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain you've ever experienced
i wonder if childbirth is a ten
how much pain were you in when you came in to the hospital?
okay, just pull up her shirt and we'll all take turns percussing, palpating, examining,
auscultating, inspecting, knowing, concluding, understanding
make sure you alcohol your hands, before, during, after, after,
after.
we are just going to do a simple physical exam, sorry we are just learning, so it might
take a bit longer than usual.
damn, we forgot to draw the curtain. oh well. i don't hear anything - should i just say i hear
wheezing? crackles? i should have volunteered first, the inspection part is so easy..you just
inspect.
sorry, its hard to find the fourth intercostal space, the patient has a lot of
fat. (a lot)
okay, everyone come look,
make sure you can see the scars from
the surgery. take turns, if you can't all see at once
thank you so much, we learned so much today. good luck! thanks again, bye!
don't forget the alcohol. maybe wash with soap too. scrub behind the hands. the nail beds.
up the arms, like we're surgeons. wash your white coats with bleach. swab your stethoscopes with
alcohol.
before, during, after,
after.
|
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| happy |
[09 Feb 2009|11:58pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 happy |
] |
i have become three dimensional.
|
|
| parenchyma. |
[04 Feb 2009|08:48pm] |
take a crooked sixpence, walk a crooked mile;
our lady of formaldehyde is trapped,
like a dried out mouse in her mousetrap bones;
trapped by her rib
cage, poured molten once
into the chalky S or her spine,
correction line drawn due east of her
geographical centre.
--
snap the great vessels
into the hilum and we're pulling,
tendons flexed on lori's arm as she braces against the steel table
suddenly, a dripping, breathless baby,
free.
a sand struck by lightning monstrosity,
anteriorly stark white.
--
[luckily, nobody saw,]
i retched as we slipped them back, closed their prison doors shut
fit the last missing rib in, like a puzzle piece,
closed the orange tarpaulin and left.
--
my lady of formaldehyde, you will be free
when they burn you, when the heat springs your mousetrap bones wide, wide open,
my lady,
you will be free.
|
|
| angry young man paints. |
[06 Nov 2008|03:21pm] |
i want to break their guitar.
a child on the floor eating ladybugs,
red orange wing shards,
dribbling from the lip;
polished globule
of coral ladybug sitting,
gem by the collar, waiting, and evading quietly.
i have utter contempt for painting
i will
break painting
peonies, bleeding.
profuse, pulsatile, turbulent
dripping
onto white tile floors, absorbing,
absorbing
clean.
i intend to destroy, destroy
everything
violet lips
vomiting golden oranges.
green rivers pushing
rapids, eddies cradling
oranges, oranges,
oranges.
i will break their guitar,
i will break
their guitar.
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