Wake me from this troubled dream

full of Gregorian chants and whale song,

vague with lyrics of my demise. I am made

of these broken-down redundant parts, my face

is slack and vulnerable, fleshy; my crop

is dead, white and ashen, crawling with

horrible vermin. I refuse. Oh doctor, reap

all of nature’s bounties for me, tie a moist

black shell to my spine with dental floss,

hot glue centifocals to my eyeballs. I know

you were disappointed when your first pig

valve patient refused to roll in the mud and snuff

out truffles, but I will be better, will rub my long

legs against the night’s harmonic edge, playing

odes to the surgeon’s ego. Cover me with jagged

stitches until even the counterculture finds me

hideous and unironic. Let me say: I am healed.

Let me say: I am better.