Friday, February 27, 2015

Operation

i


A short hose draining an appendage, a continuous
water flow so that the clots, an autonomous healing,
are flushed out and nothing is dammed, the body
damming itself as it is supposed to, but turned 
enemy by its own repair as if in this 
case it doesn't know better, and it doesn't. 
Restoration must be halted and held back 
until it is time, and then it is released and does
what evolution has determined. No simple matter in that
we reverse what we observe, its natural course
rendered degenerative, it goes about its own
way mindless: nature is meant to consume, 
not heal. A river redirected, a mountain
moved, we retool an organ until it is salvaged.


ii

Corpus Carborundum, the softest tissue vs. 
the hardest abrasive, a sharp tool sharpened,
a scalpel that slices open an abdomen like a papaya,
juices and all, mere flesh against 
metal, a kitchen utensil, a knife perhaps,
a bullet, a shard, all penetrating, the body
a melon, the air subtle with fluids, that men
operate in theaters, in theaters perform, save
lives under a surgical sun, where an epidural 
oblivion leaves one malleable, reparable.
Or in a war, a theater where mortars rip flesh, 
where insanity becomes strategic, maneuvers assigned.
All science, the saving, the recycling, the same
hand, the human, ordering life, ordering death.


Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Back Road of Not Appearing

Not quite arriving. Not a journey,
Never completely there. Some part
left behind, or along the way,
a movement in a direction, it seems much of you
has been sprinkled saltlike throughout
your clothes.

Particles, neutrons, constant orbiting of 
substances composed of substances, 
not considering each of us
is a whole but parts of parts that 
pulsate in cohesion,
tell us we are this man or that woman,
tell us no more than a dog thinks.

What are we?—at this second,
this minisecond? The world is huge,
and there are so many of us. What is the
political situation in Bulgaria?
What is it around the corner? 

Too much to know.
I draw a line between me and the multitude. 
But where is this line? I lose it.
To dwell in indefiniteness
takes indefiniteness, is unsettling.

Is it human to be so hindered? Caged? 
Is it human to be so free?
One’s microns must be kept as compact
as possible.

I isolate, shun the invincible,
look north when others say south. 
There are subjects not to be approached.
Truthful, disturbing.
Is it cowardice? Perhaps, perhaps not. 
One can indoctrinate but not convince.
One germinates as one geminates. 

Turn left at this junction,
right at that corner.
Once trial and error, but that was dangerous,
Now established, yet just
as dangerous.

What happens happens,
or does it?
Is it evolution? But I’ll be long gone.
Having evolved into particles. 
Pure thought.
No longer a neighbor.