Wednesday, April 13, 2005


Sunday is the day we begin.
On that day I ordered
a vial of vitamins, 100 capsules,
a gel of arnica, 90 short squeezes,
the Indian toothpaste, same,
all for $25 and shipping.

This day 16 years before,
Farie Geneva closed one eye
and left the other open,
a shutter for me in one
stroke to complete.
99 years she respired.

Mother cried silent tears,
saline nonetheless, red-nosed
nevertheless, endless regardless.
We smoked, my brother and I,
deeply and respectfully
inhaling more times than nine.

Sunday was the beginning,
My vitamins will arrive.
Mother has died. Brother
is quiet. We do not talk.
Still when I say his name:
Martin, something about
the six letters, iambic,
awakens moments more.

On Monday, I flew,
my 64-inches in slow motion
pivot from vertical to prone
in less than 60 seconds,
less than a breath.
Down half a flight of stairs,
eight steps, six feet, tilted
and flying and then a mess.

How many ribs around?,
how many bones in the back?,
how much muscle soft
tissue organs to bruise?
bp: 110/70, temp unknown.
Coffee keeps me typing.
The dwarf eats his pellets
and that one is bliss.

Wednesday interrupts.
There is more: the three
packets of fiction, eight
stories each at 2000
words a piece. 48,000
equals one random book
to read, each to rate: 1-5.
Two dozen wait for answers.

I want to sleep. It’s 8:42PM.
The ticks give me time.
The dwarf stretches on his
chamois cloth bed, one eye
watching me, waiting.

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