Friday, February 27, 2015



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.


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.

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