jettisoned in the Shop Rite parking lot was neon mike + jenna girl. she let me have the bag full of neat spikes + tyrannosaurus texas toast. then, at approximately twelve fifty-four p.m. god him- self wandered down here pantless, said the world was over + anyone left is a crook.
neon bracelet looked like fuck, said "Viagra does not protect against sexually transmitted diseases."
- including HIV? - including HIV.
who am i, with a Casablanca postcard + incredible hulk haircut, just tryin' to muscle my way into the lottery?
(tilapia sandwich. they sell those now in packs of smokes.)
"wrds of counsl (frm the dctr who only spks whn spkn to)"
i. first off levity is impossible— you weigh 138 pounds you who lived sixty- one years before Alzheimer's. good they didn't name it after you. (sorry)we haven't met: i am the doctor who only speaks when spoken to. i came in the white room on Monday + words fell out yr mouth. "life was a fugue," i said to no one in particular.
ii. nurse, nurse! your precondition is a tonic; you look lovely. i met you on a plane. you told me cirrhosis was like cirrus clouds in a terminal known for flights.
iii. where's self-medicated anesthesiologist? -right.
listen, drink whenever you want—just build up strength to duck under the train before god + the nightmare crew have you eviscerated.
He who never sees the world but in his faery head, the timelessness of nothing and the ejaculate dead play pick-up on the iron lot outside McSorley's.
1951: tinny bleachers hoist the wistful living, who seldom raise a banner; now, cairn made out of baseballs flanks the mound where Reynolds threw his opening day no-hitter— so, so long Rizzuto.
Today, on this day in unhistory, I forge a death fugue in my head: my father, barely drunk, not nine outs in nor half past one, the smouldering, pyring sun— less skeletal bodies then colliding with their dated time; I put them back into swing.
September 28: the Sox still trail by eight, the raucous fans still raucous— concessions freeze the sale of beer (only because they've run out); less pine tar in the living room every time I open up your box of tawny baseballs, autographs; here's number 10 around the stitch: "To Edward—keep your glove down," the best advice you got somehow.
If you gave yourself three years to fast, that would be an exquisite offer. I've reached the point where I don't know what I'm doing but I know what I'm doing when I'm sad. Today, the papers: "Ingrid Betancourt, Une Femme Libre." Our hell is far away from us.
Heaven is in our midst, a foreign object. The dependency of trust is wearying. My head, a weight- less hummer. If you told me more I wasn't listening. If you told me less, I'd have forgiven you. I can't trust everything you tell me— language is for whimps. I can't promise you disaster, though a thousand hearty hearts have wanted it,— globally speaking, that's none.