Don’t think me rude, it’s just that this hilarious,
reductionist simplicity of disaster grows harrowing
to even consider after a time, these fingers drawn
out slender, sweet and parallel like the close queue
of bubbles falling in reverse up the side of a Crown
and cola, these couple of Daltons that hold my blood
cells in the field to sow and not to reap, these invisible
and blameless holes in our conscious perception that
thicken the voice with mucus, let it drip to the floor
and congeal in a spiderweb of vowels and plosives,
it wears on you after a time, the sheer combinatorics
of existence, until of course I’m going to laugh when
I hear the story about the lymphoma patient who vomits
simply upon seeing his chemotherapy doctor, oh you sly,
manipulative body, do you get it, I’ll explain when you’re older…