Before it Spreads
THE STRUGGLING has REACHED
thee ends -
to find some positive diagnosis;
the drained hologram,
the fatigue reddened shoulders,
that rapidity of thumb taps….
However it should happen,
to recover from some
knockout blow by Mezmerino
or whomever; there I want to refuel
and pick myself straight into
into all the depravation of tragedy
of salaries unattainable
and reality of art untouchable;
because in no way will I suffer
Not so much scared of the Doctor
and whitecoats or even the tests
and treatments maybe,
the medieval tortures I shall be;
but the bill terrifies me.
Blow up the hospitals.
I could all curl, fetal,
writhing in pain
in the middle of
a claustrophobic operation..
But in the vacancy,
and the inability to feel good
endorphins coursing these veins,
as if my world has been
and through glorious paint brushes
just form me and my era;
go absorb with as much awe
as if time were so ancient
yet on the pulp a brand new text
as if Rome were still there
albeit in pieces; as if Atlantis surfaced
like my city … my people, my giving.
yeah so but not so much that I do not
want to suffer but I want to be remembered
for more than what he said to me,
“to see these places
that still exist. Ruins and remains.
And unearth the past and reconstruct
Things.” Oh how he turned to me
Then turned me away.
In so many ways, as if there
would be one . . . .
“well there are many tests
we can do. But without any
insurance, it can be real expensive...”
—“I would like to be sure
before it spreads….whatever it is.”
Oh don’t be silly, doc. It is nothing.
“Everything will be alright.”
Except the slow sinking feeling.