dr. carter to the rescue
(collaboration b/w Megan Burns & Geoff Munsterman)
no kids & no dinner to make — i take my lack
of life
seriously patient dying but the truth is doctors
warp round the last religious ablations, satiate
the pain of failure with god complex &
dexadrine
percentages toyed more than what sick get
because people die whether you is helping or is not
so winged trespass a wrought level to escape
just get paid & keep low the malpractice
suits
blazed sorrows in cases shaped a seizing
keep grinning through burnt chest procedures
& just so you know i’m worried all the time
you will take your life before i do
that Sexton/Biggie mashup playing Ready & Waiting
under stubbornness rewound low brow humor
where we elbowed interrupted by moments
of connection it’s imperfect at best, just a
figment
at worst, & conditional on my grateful yeses
always
every mouthpiece locked gravel pitch bit the curb
where it would’ve been appropriate to hold you when
there is no other, my cock washed is a fraternal
refraining a gold dusting that splatters dashed
wishful thinking b)
habit or c) fucking pointless
because i’m a cab driver, doorman, doormat fat boy
a coffee-brewing, dogshit collecting,
poem-revising
solicitor of no futurists chasing covenants so
any
punching bag craves a body bag: he counts driving
all the bridges from where i keep my books to
where
she before disappearing the obscure wrestles herself
in gym clothes nosing the door the be let back
inside
having read them never matters. it doesn’t now. riddled
in a knotted pull over i force interest these
days
because it pays to discover there is nothing left
to
hunger dark nouns in a creasing dirt & river,
the sex
was good but you learn to turn that brain wave
off
unconditional
a lie of course it is but what
comes
from saying it aloud & be not dead tonight be
better
than okay even if dying parallel to the crated
cement
i found & taken i’d know it’s out there but
where there
are four bridges from bedroom to the bar &
cops
park sullenly at the feet of three of them. when
you are roped:
coal-colored city of domestic ache
i’m the doctor & you’re the patient don’t
expect
to get better—no other, i make no bed in no, i
tell
what is dark to the light, a blaming ends doubled
you
my throat music. i reply knife. Time kinder,
rewind
the tape & let the music move closer.
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