Tuesday, April 19, 2016


I'm sorry,
The doctors' whites bled into the bright light,
Their goggle eyes blinking at my aberrations.
The words are wrapped around vital organs.
They are firmly attached to your spine.
They can't be removed or
You will die.

The doctors know science,
Their shiny degrees frown down in Latin with wax seals.
I will die.

The doctors don't know that the words must come out.
They will come out.
They will grow, expand, pile up, push on my diaphragm
Till every breath is a belch of swallowed sentiment,
Every hiccup a propulsion of pickled, sour prose.

They will grow and leach the iron from my soul,
Absorb the toxins that seeped through my skin in
A long lonely soak in a mire of grey moods.

They will grow and squeeze my liver,
Wring out the lemon-scented melancholy buried under tequila,
The bile of tabasco-hot temper I never expressed when you stole my light.

The words will come out and I will die.
And when I awake from the torrent of trance-word explosive
vomiting death.
I will be whole, and light, and I will know the science of healing

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