Blue Light

dwarved circle 

spots, dull lit,

present en-

sure "okay

safe:

and fine".

Retreat

Half-melted and worn, sole-

plastic squishing under weight,

sneaker-feet fall heavy and stick

to the concrete, ribbed and

uneven, weaving through mazes

of decade-old family vehicles,

leathered by sun that sheds our layers.

I take steps--forward,

(to veins, bulged

and blue when your

head’s thrown back)

but my mouth is numb. It

melts, slick with sweat--Laugh

louder, and do not mind.

Code

Speaker-boxes

announce the code

 

through mesh worn

gray, public that

 

old man’s man-

whisp is septic,

 

sweaty, heaving

nonsense at no one—

 

he awakes and knows

he shits in bedpans,

 

incontinent,

viral through and

 

through but for

next-of-kin.

 

A flutter-rush of

white coats and shouts

 

“he’s in de-fib”

“push two”

 

as the old man

babies a handful

 

of bedsheets and

wonders at

 

the stars

in his eyes that

           

should be in

the sky,

 

the tubes inside

and out him,

 

childhood gods

and gargles

 

no words into

the ventilator.

Children hum
to themselves when
ignoring
persistent parents
or an imminent shot;
though the cruelties of
either must will
out, dull noise numbs
the bite.
We sleepless cannot help
but do the same--minds
drum against our
skull-fronts.

Untitled Reaction to Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Two eyelids flutter as in post-

coital communication,

the languid and prolonged

blink-flaps of butterfly-

curtains, wrapped in the

somnolence of bedsheets.

Bedridden and awake,

the prisoner clings, claws at the

waining of his dreamy relief,

at wandering remembrances,

childhood stories of Atlantis,

of King Midas and then

the Golden Fleece—

Spliced by an electric emissary

of his brain stem, final

whisps of cartoon

Westerns concede once more

to harsh December wind blowing

through the window, confined

in Room IV.

Untitled Reaction to Diving Bell and the Butterfly