Tag Archive: medicine


The moment slips out of clasping

hands like it’s coated with soap suds

the moment when his silver soul

flees his bony cage and skips

town across the red sea and out

to make a permanent home

burrowed in the pocked and pitted

lunar expanse of my belly

along with the others

like jellyfish washing up

on the same seashelled

shore where they will live forever

as far as my infant mind

can tell and it is no great feat

to imagine a world of sand

so stingered that none dare

cross and frolic in the ocean.



a.k.a. cephalalgia a.k.a. what was

in that drink exactly a.k.a. are you

positive the brain has no pain receptors

a.k.a. if you could just stop talking

a.k.a. buh buh buh buh buh a.k.a.

just three more hours in the shower

a.k.a. the devil done found my weak

point a.k.a. wh-whaddaya mean it

might be a tumor a.k.a. it’s complicated

a.k.a. dunk my head in a basin of

cold water a.k.a. but I need this here

caffeine a.k.a. squinty reds and pinks

a.k.a. why don’t you try it out before

you call it “benign”, buddy?


i’ve been having this, ah, thing lately


(doctor says it’s nothing to worry about in the long run,

assuming i don’t value things like long term memory

and/or fertility)

where i think of the earth not as one, you know,

momentary sphere, but rather as more of an

overlapping eternity of space donut


(the plain ones make my mouth dry up and give me this

sort of hacking cough, doctor says it’s not anaphylaxis,

i’d just prefer chocolate frosted)

but man, geometry really starts fucking with you

when your dreams are haunted by the 3D volume

swept out by history


(not even high, just on a healthy regimen of anti-psychotics,

and i think they’re working, i really do)

this dark space of the heart thrown violently against

a factor of π that has its own demands, right, a boa

constrictor chain of so many clonal humans, well, keep

rotating, earth, see if you can’t blot out the sun with your



(i think i might get to sleep any minute now, yeah, if i could

just gnaw through the umbilicus of memory, right, that’s it…)


“Shit happens in the morgue”

for Bob Miner


Now I understand what it feels like

in the deep antiseptic cold of the strange,


the Rainbow’s End populated primarily

with grey and beige and brown, but you


really must appreciate the effort, rigorous

care taken in arranging my shrunken family


in a Christmas card post-mortem photograph,

death masks on and grinning, but you see,


sometimes there are things that must be done,

I pull my white matter through my nose with


a steel crowbar to clear my thoughts, soar

into the constellations of stellate exit wounds,


perhaps returning to Earth too soon, but always

leaving a small part of myself in the refrigerator.

This beat! This beat is infectious!

This beat is sputum dripping in a

zesty 4/4, 180 bpm! This beat peels

my skin off with its toxins! This beat

is dancing around in my naked bones!

This beat is quite possibly highly

transmissible after it exits my body

from every orifice imaginable (but don’t

worry too too much, life is risk)! This beat

keeps me up all night with an itching,

burning, uh, desire, let’s call it! This

beat is a weird swelling in the lymph

nodes in my groin! This beat is addiction!

This beat is telling my family to savor

the moments, count them like never

before, because it won’t be long now,

no, won’t be long until I go and join

the red, swollen, limping, ataxic dance.

Sick Boy

Sick boy, phlegmatic in your humble

disregard for the whirl, will your eyes

crust shut against the war?


Sick boy, stormy in your handy quiver,

a body that threatens to dissemble with

rosy cheeks, will you be my antonym?


Sick boy, fervid with eyes that glow out

of the subterrain, so much life left, such

spleen, such gall, and will the healers

dare to call you fluke?


Sick boy, vitreous and molten, you are

the one who smiles like ashes, and yet,

will you hold my hand and make me less



Take two of these and become

a well-oiled nothing, racing to

paint the environment bloody,

assimilate the world, cover

it with your essence that oozes

out of every caldera, every pore

and vent and orifice dripping,

try to remember, remember

two times one half of thirty

every meal with a glass of

pulpy orange juice, and when

you inevitably overdose, leak

out into a smear on the asphault,

well, realize, dear one, that you

can never be truly memorable

until you have evaporated from

this shimmering black mirage.

or, “Death to Videodrome, long live the new flesh!”


now there is so much truth

it has taken on its own life

so much truth out there it

exercises its own unique

brand of body horror slicing

through my ancient logical signs

and definitions and replacing

them with syndromes disorders

symptoms that now I have

to live up to and defy my very

emotional existence to live

up to the condition well that old

joke ha ha son you’ve caught

the human condition well all

this truth is clouding reality in

a scary way by now and I don’t

know what I got anymore I just

know it’s new and changing and

mutating all the time it’s the human

condition it’s malignant growing

all the time metastasizing to my

innermost heart my secret soul