—–
something to eat,
the rain bubbles up out and over,
through the windows,
through the patter of brie,
boiled slugs
and cheap wine.
—–

The usual problems,
he’s raving about talking to her while talking to her,
spine shattered by tumors more precious than any hog sniffed mushroom. A slight pressure, rogue life in the skull,
a million years of begging and trying and dying down the drain in one small error in replication,
we remember things differently and they caution me against imaginary agitators and phantoms in dark suits,
a cloud shaped like a horse remembered as two tiny pill which
makes her vomit over and over, for the pain of
days spent walking in paths worn down through fresh snow in a wind swept Alaskan hole.

Talking about it,
riding down the long highway,
weeks of sleep unslept.

There are no days off for good behavior,
no end to work,
no stop to striving,
it will never stop,
until it does,
and they,
well they are being followed.

April and March have not been kind,
they are not forgiving months,
which goes along with them,
they are not forgiving people.

he may turn desert into pools of water,
or parched earth into springs,
now they ask where is the gentle land?
They see no green pastures,
or still waters,
there is no time off for good behavior,
and no time like now, and ever.

An inspiration.
When the low rent village Doctor told her she had no serious medical problems,
she hadn’t slept in days, the pain in her back made it hard to walk, sit, sleep, work and think.
Did she go back on her knees and beg the doctor to treat her more seriously?
Of course not.
She wore her disappointment and disgust like armor.
As the pain got worse she soldiered on.
As her spine fractured and bent she went to work, she helped people and ignored the dizziness and moments of confusion.
Dragged a thousand miles by loved ones to the hospital,
she tells them stage IV breast cancer is fine and good,
compound spinal fractures are kidney stones,
tumors growing in her skull are pain pills making her loopy.
Raging at phantoms and spirits,
oceans of treachery,
“left to her own devices the warrior turns on herself.”
Her rage is unstoppable as the body revolts,
cells turn traitor,
were willing enough there would be no stopping her.
An altar to the warrior spirit,
a temple of kittens leaping at wild cats,
there is no stopping her.
There is no better lesson,
no richer gift.

“Na bean don chat gun làmhainn”

“And how can woman die better. Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of her fathers, And the temples of her gods?”

An interesting Ted Talk by Stewart Brand, “Information Wants to be Free.”

spake the voice of the lakes of ice,

fire from the earth reaches out to kiss fire in the sky,

and those on high were brought low.

Also, Aimee Mullins newest prophet of our trans-human future?

Mr Serious Pants is at a loss.
Somethings are only meaningful in person.

Nothing But Death by Pablo Neruda
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

and maybe lefts.

Natural rights,
found faced down in a tub of bathwater,
a police baton hangs with a certain Gallic arrogance from a nearby towel rack.

“our revels now are ended.”

Now, All meat breakfast
spider eggs, late night phone calls.
no sugar, no honey.