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.