Follow the kick-drum of the heart
to the point where it’s heard loudest.
Spend ten thousand hours on the lungs:
Read the textbook on what fills us.
Dedicate a white board
to what makes us collapse.
Hold the bell lightly
to differentiate your own pulse from another’s.
Then drink, and dance, and pray,
to relearn that they’re the same.

03:00
When I think about never speaking to him again, I picture a girl walking in a crowd that’s all moving in the same direction, and then suddenly she drops everything she’s holding and turns around and starts running as fast as she can, smiling and pushing past everyone till finally she reaches an open space and her face looks like sunshine as her hair blows behind her in the wind and she’s free she’s free, oh God, she’s free.

03:15
But then I think about walking into a doctor’s office ten years from now and sitting on a cold metal table, staring at my legs dangling off the edge, waiting. And then I look up as the door opens slowly, not expecting to see his tattooed arms hidden in a lab coat, but there he is and, oh God, his eyes haven’t changed, and I can’t breathe, and he just stands there, looking at me like an unfinished sentence. Then I’d have to let him put a stethoscope to my chest and listen to my heart and I wonder what it’d sound like, if it would sound like messy half beats of missing him. If he’d be able to tell. If he’d care.

03:30
Or maybe the next time I see him, if I ever see him again, we’ll both be whole versions of ourselves, content and in good places, our lives all sorted out and how we always hoped they’d be. And maybe we’d be able to talk about the weather and our kids and the lives we created apart. And maybe I’d be able to look at him with only feelings of pleasant acquaintance and relative indifference, not seeing the boy I fell for when I should’ve been focused on catching myself.

03:45
And I know I should find comfort in thinking about how one day I may look at him and feel nothing,

04:00
but it’s four in the morning and I don’t want to let go.

He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.

He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.

In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.

Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.

I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.

The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.

He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.

His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.

Ar-kon, he says. All better now.




                                                        by Peter Pereira



.

We both traced the constellations
those that were unknown
the stars danced to a different tune last night
Those we called our own
The astronomers stencilled each complicated line
With our bare hands we scratched each curve
We may have not  heard yet
We've built a universe of our own

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.

mom is sick her 90th birthday is in several weeks she says she has lived a long full life and is ready to die the doctors are trained to keep her alive i remember when the doctors kept dad alive while waiting for the cancer to attack a vital ***** i wonder if this practice of keeping people alive is humane mom forgets events 2 hours earlier walks into mirrors falls down wakes up with black eyes i’m having trouble sleeping thinking morbid thoughts maybe lots of people all around the world are waiting to die people ***** mutilated robbed cheated bankrupt homeless war victims old people with chronic diseases dependent on caretakers maybe millions of people are thinking about death waiting hoping praying for death faced with the growing problem of overpopulation why can’t we mitigate the suffering of those waiting to die i don’t understand



in early morning i drift out of sleep toss right turn left look out window glance Mount Lemmon stretch out on back planter flex dorsal flex toes extend arms out to sides over head look up at exposed redwood beams ceiling try to remember interpret understand what i was dreaming rise from bed brush teeth walk around make bed pull brush sheets try to take dump because i don’t want to embarrass myself in pilates class drink water slip on gym shorts head down stairs grab keys lock door scan garden always feel lucky if Saab starts drive to Tucson racquet fitness club pilates class



i am ready to move away from Tucson nobody here wants needs me no one reads my writings or is interested in showing buying my paintings sun scorches bakes intrudes invades rudely glaring mercilessly my skin suffers i am thinking about heading back east North Hampton Massachusetts or Hudson Valley area or Chicago where i have many friends or rainy Apeldoorn Netherlands where Pavanne and Shannon live or Eureka California where Shannon also resides i’ve paid my dues a thousand times hoping to achieve success i live in fantasy imagining outcomes that never come



younger attractive female doctor wearing white coat low heel black pumps enters room of 60 year old patient suffering from depression loneliness despair

DOCTOR please sit up and open your gown (she plugs stethoscope into her ears)

PATIENT you want to hear my heart

DOCTOR breathe deep breaths (she examines glands around throat under arms shines light into ears eyes nose mouth) hmmm what symptoms caused you to admit yourself

PATIENT i’ve been feeling frustrated defeated isolated anxious for a while

DOCTOR you look strong healthy height weight proportionate i think your problems are psychological you may want to find a good therapist

PATIENT i’ve seen many as a kid none helped

DOCTOR well if you think you’re ready to be euphonized i can schedule you for next week of course the hospital will need to make arrangements for disposing your body

PATIENT does it hurt

DOCTOR the drug industry has made huge advances in the last few years i’ve been informed the procedure is actually quite euphoric

PATIENT next week huh like Friday or Saturday next week

DOCTOR the hospital will contact you

PATIENT do i need to bring anything or what do i wear

DOCTOR the hospital will contact you with a list of details including an e-will if you have family or relations

PATIENT thank you for your kindness you’re really sweet and pretty i don’t see a wedding ring are you married or single my mom would love to hear i’m dating a doctor

the Doctor will see you now
the nurse announces into the hallway
she doesn't shout - only raising her voice a little
louder to get my attention.
i'm nervous, it's my first serious appointment.

as i sit down the stool, She looks into my pupils
it's an eye exam, She says
lightly brushing across my face
skincare is of importance, also sleep more
your eye bags aren't a good sign

grabs my arm, pinching it lightly
muscle density isn't all that bad,
her rope of iron is hooked onto Her ears
a small disk between Her fingers
breathe in, breathe out

a stethoscope!
it presses against my chest, the palpitations almost
minuscule, yet She grabs onto my arm
Her ears almost dance at each knock
fingers tap to my rhythm

Her stethoscope presses harder down my chest
it's almost as if my ***** is pushing back
against the now warm instrument
then it sinks, i swallow it
down, down, in! she pushes lightly into my skin

why is Her warm hand in my chest?
She sinks deeper and deeper in
until she grabs the soft fruit of my Eden
She's gentle, feeling every jump in my chest
this is supposed to happen?

Her fingers caress every vein, studying it,
tracing it, she notes down the rate in her head
no good, She says, getting faster by the minute
my sweat pouring down my neck
isn't making this any easier, is it?

then Her hand slips out
i didn't realize she needed no gloves
She notes down Her measurements
in...  a blog?
be sure to be back tomorrow

i stand up, button up my shirt
i am sure to be back tomorrow.

stethoscope to this chest reading one of these "dubs"
as captions to italics  sometimes, we lead
too patient lives, one as receptive the second as disruptive
covertly, convertedso to alleviate, vindicate
these dial tones
exchanged -so to compliment- verses in the clarity
of LP vinyl tracks
posture within degrees
to hear a “Hello?”

The rumbling motorcycle pulled in
The Cowboy entered the luncheonette
And Doctor Boss was sitting there waiting
They licked their lips, shook hands and that was it
This is the Legend of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
Two stones untouched by complacent moss
Together they made a deal
His satin suit and His Cuban heeled boots
This is how it began

Doctor Boss was a respected physician
Shaved, shampooed and conditioned
Wore a stethoscope, had tongue depressors in jars
The Doctor had a gold tooth and fancy cars
But he was crooked as the day was long
Had no regards for right and wrong
Just as long as he was making a buck
He had connections to the cartel down in Mexico
And they lined his pockets with rising dough

Back in 1955 he was peddling dope in med school
Made the junkies line up and the women drool
Until he was challenged to a switchblade duel
Got his right ring finger sliced off and throw into a pool
He turned around and killed that man
Slashed him in the face and punctured his gut
He packed his trunk and headed north and ran
Darted toward the Jersey Horizon
On the way he picked up gun and a phony medical license

You would think a ****** would weigh on a man’s conscience
But not the Doc his mind was on motel options
He got a room and went to a local hole in the wall
A smoky, run down biker bar
“Dewar’s and water” said a pretty little thing
Boss looked at her, downed his drink and suffered whiskey sting
“Hey there beautiful, what’s your name?” “Lillian” she said
“What’s yours?” “Well, Lillian that’s not important but I’ll tell you what is”
“I got a motel room all to myself and I need some company”

Paper thin walls and a moaning women
The mattress squeaks as the vacancy signs flashing
The next morning Lillian awoke
Just to see The Boss had hit the road
She got dressed and went on her way
The motel bill remained unpaid
She wished he would have stayed awhile
But he was miles away by then
And starting a new life
This was the origin of Doctor boss
Wayward bound and identity lost
How a boy became a man
From check ups to drug trafficking now
This is how it all began

Now The Cowboy thought life was a game
A wild child that wouldn’t be tamed
He lived his life against the grain
Behind his aviators was repressed pain
He never knew his dear old dad
And his mother, run over by a drunken cab
Broken home launching pad
The kid went mad and hopped on his bike
He began his quest to quench his thirst for an exciting life

He raced and robbed from Cali to Michigan
He broke every law from Dallas to Vermont and back again
Until the day when he wasn’t fast enough
They tackled him down and put him in cuffs
He was charged and sentenced to five years in Cook County
An extensive criminal record by the age of twenty
But as soon as he was behind bars he busted out before anyone knew
Off to continue his life of debauchery
Of freedom and existential ecstasy

He was an escaped convict with a bounty on his head
The warden of Cook County didn’t want him alive but dead
But The Cowboy went on his merry way, making deals and getting laid
Getting ******, kicking *** and taking names
He was just looking for a good time
He was searching for a new trail to ride
All he wanted to do was live
Do everything in the world there was to do
To him every day brought something new

On a faithful day, The Cowboy came to Hacketts
The city where Doctor Boss opened up his practice
The tired traveler went to go get drunk
Over in the corner of the bar he was slumped
The Doc strolled in and everyone paid their respects
But there was something The Cowboy didn’t get
“Why are they kissing the ring of this nine fingered quack?”
He pulled out a knife on The Doc and a bottle went smash!
Over the poor Cowboy’s head and he blacked out

“Now, son I know that’s not how you say hello”
“And you seem to be a nice young fellow”
“So how bout I cut you a break”
“And we’ll go over to my office and I’ll clean up these scrapes”
The Cowboy agreed and got to his feet
They walked to Boss’s office just down the street
And The Doc sewed up his head
“Say, boy where you from I never seen you around here”
“It doesn’t matter you three piece suite wearing queer”

Doctor Boss chucked then pushed The Cowboy down by the throat
Pulled out his gun ,“I can **** you now but I won’t”
“No, you’re gonna do me a favor you little ****”
The Cowboy couldn’t breathe but Boss wouldn’t quit
“I got a package that needs to go to Georgia”
“If you take it there , they’ll be four grand waiting here for ya”
Now how could The Cowboy resist such an adventure?
Not to mention the grip Doctor Boss had on his Adam’s apple
He let him go and began to cackle

“Now around here, I run things”
“I’m free to do as I please”
The Cowboy was amazed at this man, he was right
He owned a gun and  got involved in a bar fight
Could this man be in the mob?
“Boy, you can call me Doctor Boss”
“Well Doc, they call me The Cowboy”
“So tell me, where am I going?

Doc Boss loaded up The Cowboy’s bike
With Mexican white powdered dynamite
“Now that’s four kilos, you got there”
“You get the money and bring it back here”
“You got it Boss, I’ll be back by Tuesday night”
And off went The Cowboy out of sight
The Doc new he could trust him
He had that look in his eye the he did those years ago
The one when you yearn to search for the unknown

This was the origin of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
They paid no attention to consequence or cost
They saw themselves in each other
Just trying to reach one height after another
Cowboy respected a man so free
And Boss saw his prodigy
Together they became filthy rich
They shook hands and that was it

I’ve always meant to sit by the sea and write you a letter
I would acknowledge the setting
(maybe of the sun and the tables outside a restaurant)
I would try to capture the sun-soaked skin and those visionary
sparkles of the sea
Which exist only between blinks
I would try to capture them for you.
I know I'll never send this, there is
No coffee cup beside me; no seagulls
are chirping within my reach
The only saltwater streams down my cheeks
Without the idyllic canvas is it worth anything?
All love gives me now is
the stabbing and wrenching of my heart.
I wrote a letter last year
after tossing and turning.
It's much too late to send
Dead ink on a Christmas card months past its
expiration date
never left the box in my shelf
You never broke your promises, you never kept them either
So what example was I left to follow?
I wonder if I would recognize you
through a stethoscope.
Did I lie?
If I cannot remember I don’t expect you to.
I wonder if your mind ever wanders far enough
(mid-song, mid-tossing and -turning)
to reach me
to write me a letter
Another that you’ll never send
...or perhaps they are all unwritten
even worse; unthought
I wonder if you would recognize me
through a stethoscope.

Maveric Prowles
Had Rumbling Bowles
That thundered in the night.
It shook the bedrooms all around
And gave the folks a fright.
The doctor called;
He was appalled
When through his stethoscope
He heard the sound of a baying hound,
And the acrid smell of smoke.
Was there a cure?
'The higher the fewer'
The learned doctor said,
Then turned poor Maveric inside out
And stood him on his head.
'Just as I though
You've been and caught
An Asiatic flu -
You musn't go near dogs I fear
Unless they come near you.'
Poor Maveric cried.
He went cross-eyed,
His legs went green and blue.
The doctor hit him with a club
And charged him one and two.
And so my friend
This is the end,
A warning to the few:
Stay clear of doctors to the end
Or they'll get rid of you.

there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love
with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her.
even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days
composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts
just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in.

years pass, and the girl never writes anything back.
i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to.

i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a
stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your
heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed
play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional.

i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my
husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night.
i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes.
i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded
krishna for *******, and the thousand days that followed:

day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room
until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine.
day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an
excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open.
day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar
but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone.
day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it.

we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend.

to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll,
but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i
once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built
me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three
minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics  
ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them.

i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she
will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides
of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building.

years pass, and the girl has never written anything back.
i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to.

even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.

I wonder if my late night plays
Will ever be relayed
To a generation that is slayed
In my play every black home
Has two stories, a fence
and a dad that won’t roam
Their cars ain’t all chrome
No bars on the windows
No grandmas saying lord knows
When cops shows
There are more colors than grey
No dope boys on the corner cliche
Or dogs on chains barking to get away
The colors blue and red stand for a flag
The black youth aren’t in a body bag
And pants never sag
Black men aren’t scary and mean
The system isn’t their adversary or
The silver screen
They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase
The color green
Black women have a name
Not ***** or **** used as shame
No fakes buts for their fame
The son has more hope
Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope
He aspires to use a stethoscope
The daughter is strong and free
She can either write a song or get a PhD
Her future is whatever she wants it to be
Their ain’t thugs on tv our color
Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother
Or get drunk and fight one another
Gun violence is a joke
the police don’t chock our folk
Our music don’t promote drug use
And Gucci don’t ******
Drivebys are now hi’s
Every family is woke and wise
It’s sad to know
That this world won’t ever exist
Because the world outside
Is to nightmarish

.i get it now, the more i make it a detention hour writing lines: doing dull work, makes sam a bored boy... intra-racial variant of slur qua intimacy, in-group standard... take any "n" word "extra g" word "thingy" among the non-exported examples, non-NBA privileged, say... in Kenya... friends? **** no... feeling intimate? huh? like i said... watching 2 hours of a washing machine cycle, is probably more entertaining, than, seeing, the cages, the - - - - - morse breaks in... so... everyone is being a ******* ******, creating a natural response to a river, that must become a reservoir / fake lake? whatever etiquette equated to politeness comes from this... no wonder we'll be doing it from spite... rather than a genuine sediment of genuine feeling, flight of the heart & and all the fickle thoughts that go with it.

please, please, put me into handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway,
the english sort of handcuffs,
the ones where they can't handcuff
you from behind,
   because the cuffs are not connected
by a mandible chain,
but a rigid middle,
implying that you have to be handcuffed
with your hands in-front...
which also implies:
   well... if **** turned ugly...
i could just wrap my hands around
a boppy's neck and just turn into
a boa...
     but that other police officer was
nice, turning the police van cell
into a taxi...
   racial slurs...
   intra-racial, or inter-racial?
  big difference...
            inter-racial slurs,
namely an english derivative:
the empire britannia rule the waves
what not?
   crass...
      not too... genius...
no real outlet phonetically...
  the language is too soft as it is...
i met one german at university
who complimented the ****** tongue
with that one general-****-over
word for everything -
conjunction, was the word,
the word is treated as a conjunction:
kurwa...
        i once dated a french psychology
major two years my senior
who i lost my virginity to,
who, let's say, enlightened me...
she was looking for native english speakers,
she told me the most fascinating
fact...
        the fwench used to attach
a trill to the R...
   before they started harking up
an R like phlegm when smoking too much
or down with the flu...
inter-racial slurs are... yawn...
   who gives a **** about walking
on egg-shells...
   i'm watching a ******* football match
or swan lake with 22 *******
                                       pansies?
everyone's suddenly going to be
     as sensitive as a fwench footballer?
****: french / fwench...
  it pretty much sounds the same...
the fwench speak one language,
the french write the same one language...
but the german complimented
a language for the: pristine outlet
of frustration of... tongue licking
a metaphysical punching bag...
but inter-racial slurs are crass,
for the simple fact that...
          they're just too plain in sight...
there is no intimate history of
a people...
   me? personally?
   i'd love to know what the african
royalty called would-be slaves
picked up by western europeans
for export...
   it's not like these colonialists run
these colonized countries freely,
without collusion with the african ruling class...
there was an african ruling class,
there is an african ruling class,
     what's to be exactly changed?
lost in translation:
    former soviet states people /
  but not the satellites?
   kacap...
   from the song husaria by bujak?
ahem...
     muscovite gałgan...
never heard that one before...
   gałgan...
   i once dated a girl from st. petersburg
that summarißed my mutterzunge
        as a crackling of radio static...
just as the english say:
of a people, with, "too many" consonants
in their surnames...
   ask a ****** about hindu surnames...
i mean: intra-racial slurs...
a movement toward real intimacy
of the use of language...
e.g. in england:
    northern monkeys,
southern fairies...
      and the rest? eurotrash...
       i once heard a intra-racial slur
about the english -
                  angol to pedzio...
and then back to cosmopolitan english...
the "n" word... night? nightmare,
nigh?
                oh... the n- word?
if only i could find some malice in
the context of use...
yes, i know the content of the word,
the content of historical usage...
    and now the whole intra-racial
comradery... inclusion...
familiarity...
                a joke of latin...
   to me that's like saying
              Nigeria...
  and then thinking:
         so... it's not the "n" word,
is it? it's the "extra g" word?
better start writing giggle with an optional
   gig(g)le:
   which could become problematic
when it came to a double omicron:
to go, among the goo...
the intra-rascial slur for a german
east of berlin?
          švab...
     funny that... the saxons are
not actually minded...
  the anglo-saxons (intra-racial
mix of celt and saxon)
             as we see them today...
but... when the teutonic order came
to the area around Danzig
     and further east to Königsberg...
further... to Riga...
         a Prussian isn't a German...
              die Preußen ist: Preuße;
  now?
   the Preußen have been reintegrated
into a dialect of Polen...
        kashubian: or at least,
        that's                     sort-of...
ultra-nationalist "sentiments":
   in "exile"...
          i love that, brushing aside
any economic migrant in favor
for the immediate migrant
   of conflict, or political asylum...
you know...
   economics: is a type of war,
                                 in slow-motion...
it's a peaceful war,
   well... ergo it's a "war"...
              and the economic migrants?
disorientated *******...
who can't exactly fully assimilate
to the expectation of the natives...
i.e. speak our language in public,
and our language in private...
  no... no thank you...
         it would be easier to remove
a tattoo with a shark-bite
and a scar than to remove my
                                   mutterzunge...
and here i am... "worried"
about the N in the word trigger...
or the "missing G" in the word: Nigeria...
like... ******* pandering
        to a panda in a Beijing zoo...
now comes the malice...
thought-prison, metaphorical dyslexia
and tattoos of grafitti on
bypass highways...
   like dirt behind my fingernails...
looking for gold nuggets
picking my nose...
   as harold norse once stated
in his memoir (of a ******* angel):
a sign of a Brooklyn intellectual...
   but i just have to point this out...
LGBTQIA...
   nice acronym...
but you're missing two letters...
**** me... if mr and mrs H
  are not included...
LGBTQIA is missing two protected
groups...
     mr P and mr N...
LGBTQIAPN...
    the ******* and
the necrophiliac...
                                    no?
   they'd fit right in...
        no? they wouldn't?
weren't we talking deviance,
             per se?
so...
          those two outer-outliers
    are legit. rainbow deviances...
no? at least mr P can have some sort
of a religious backing...
whether in the desert slap-stick
ninja sketch and satan's postbox...
or at least, back of the queue of a choir,
and some boy...
   but that's the scary bit,
isn't it?
            mr N... now...
                that's... some would claim
it to be art... or what the hell became
of eddie gein in american mainstream
culture...
                  ****... forgot ms B+...
   i do remember seeing internet
in its youth,
                   rotten . com,
            and the earliest edgy ****...
now... not even a black guy can
leave adequate compensation...
   for what... began as a saddle,
reins and stirrups...
          and became:
   a demonic hybrid knock-knock-knocking
on Gomorrah's door...
fastforward...
men on stag outings before
being shackled by the ring...
inflateable sheep
   and granny dolls...
          oh yeah: i'm a real moralist
at this point...
                    what i do find scary
is that whenever i'm confined
to a waiting room, a confined space...
and there's a child with its parent
present... there's an animal...
   there's a very old man with
a middle aged mentally ill daughter...
i'm suddenly likeable...
a curiosity...
        just like today...
  her dad is nearing 75...
      she's unkept... greasy hair...
                  rags, rather than clothes...
and in the corner of my eye...
she just couldn't stop glaring at me...
i'm sweating like i'm the sort of hell
where i'm supposed to **** her...
or go to her pajamas sleep-over party
if the case was: she was sixteen
and i was eight...
                        as i went into
the doctor's appointment
    and recounted my 2 week psychotic
episode of being strapped
to the bed... in a quasi-paralysis...
citing metaphors of p.t.s.d.,
                   not talking a word for
2 weeks, only because i received
a ******* questionnaire from
the dept. of work & pensions...
   'am i a fraud? am i?'
   between 48 hour periods...
i'd chance 2 hours of sleep...
     the usual questions...
suicidal thoughts, hallucinations?
   no... the 1st episode, yeah...
but now? it's just debilitating,
quasi-paralysis...
                  nice doctor... plump...
beauty of a doughnut...
          and doughnuts are beautiful...
esp. if you throw them into a lake,
and they float,
  and then you watch the ducks
                  and the swans swarm it...
if i lied: i should be contending
for an oscar...
          then she measured my blood-pressure...
first instrument failed...
the arm-band was too small...
the air was pumped into the band
around my hand:
    arm-band snapped
  of the blood-pressure measuring tool...
so she had to resort to
the old method of using
the stethoscope and a bigger arm-band...
i guess she knew she was
dealing with a scared / agitated
animal...
   that just so happened to talk
                  some words in human;
a wounded animal,
is hardly scared / agitated...
a wounded animal,
   is whatever implies...
being elevated to a status
that transcends the wound...
the doctors came too late,
i'm fidding with letters
    like jigsaw...
  i'm fiddling with the then
larger jigsaw of words...
   and the whole point of the picture
will only arrive,
post office stamp and all...
akin to a postmortem:
  that part of life...
where...
   eh? how would you classify
man...
          pork, beef, game,
poultry, fish?
    all... none of the stated?
that's almost funny...
   HOW WOULD YOU CLASSIFY
MAN IN THE "CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE"
of said classes of edible meats?
am i pork?
   no... am i beef? no...
veal? no...
         well, we already know
that some examples of meat
are actually vegetables:
   brain damage, coma...
like:
   do you bite into a tomato...
"thinking" it's a fruit...
or a veg.?
         "logic" supposes
that a tomato is a fruit...
common sense?
     it's a ******* vegetable!
post-racism...
   what sort of meat is man?
eh... bewildering...
   i guess we can only find
an answer, in China...
  should we ever send
a pet dog & its owner to
some obscure, countryside,
small town, famine riddled
(or straight to Kiev) place...
sorry...
******* a black doesn't make
me "less", "racist"...
i might as well imitate
a colonial overlord by the act...
seriously...
english, these days?
watching a ******* washing-machine
is less confusing that
walking on egg-shells in
this tongue...
currently, available...
so let's forget, black, or white...
you beef?
   you crab meat?
       you lamb?
   (slippery *****
of salivating sounds):
what are you?
       it's called:
  SEEING PAST THE COLOUR...
so...
     what's the meat worth?
is chimp meat the same
as human meat?
   no, wait...
that gorilla grew big-*******
eating shrubs?
anomaly of human
dietary requirements...
a horse became so big...
only eating... grass...
      yeah... no anomaly...
and then my brain starts to short-circuit...
past the colour,
infancy of discrimination...
how would to categorise
the "body" of christ
if no bread was available?
beef? pork? veal?
fish?
      i already know what
the ****** would be...
   sure as **** it wouldn't be
*****'s liquor worth of wine...
i went straight to the beast
of the wheat...
    and i called her...
        ms. amber...
                 and... maybe i just didn't
like the wrap-up of rap
because of the lyrics and
my unrelateable tendency
to never **** the bid-bop head...
of the music per se,
but the lyrics?
      sure... the music is great...
but the lyrics?
     i can't relate to them...
i need, something,
mythological and obscure...
a time-wrap not minding a grief
                 of / from yesterday...
mind you: i'll write this,
as i'll drink whatever is left,
and tomorrow...
            is a tomorrow without
this current zenith of the hours...
come beethoven thinking
of tux in the variant of rigid
geometry in the form of music...
           like when sartre plagiarised
joyce at the end of iron in the soul?
- that's the next tier of "racism"...
    as far as i am concerned...
it would be nice to re-evauluate
my position
    on the libra of being
reengaged in a food-chain
hierarchy...
                  cancer is a primitive
pseudo-vitro-forma...
    great... eaten by parasites...
germs... etc.,
  guess what...
   at least a lion is beautiful...
i'd rather be eaten by a lion
than a ******* tapeworm...
so what am i?
              beef?
                     ****...
       first i'd have to put monkey
on the menu...
to tease at the taboo
     of teasing the cannibal
    while performing oral ***.

I first noticed my abnormal heartbeat
in Duluth, Minnesota.
Standing across the canal from you
separated by water
and the waves waves waves.
I still swear to this day
that it was your breath I heard
mingling with the hush of water.
The next time I notice my heart
we’re at the hospital.
You tell me to uncross my ankles
and hold out my wrist
your thumb brushing over the more delicate part of its skin
and your stethoscope cold on my throat.
It’s only a
one-two-three
four
before you’re pulling away
my pulse going with you.
I don’t care if I have to live with arrhythmia
live with the pills and the appointments
and the lack of a steady thump thump thump
in my chest.
Just the ghost of the feel
of your thumb on my pulse point
on my wrist
on my neck
curving behind my ear
and my hand on your heart
with your thump thump thump,
will keep my blood flowing.
I’m a girl with a broken heart
and I’m in love with a cardiologist.

She was born in a sightless world, never knowing
The beauties all around, but enjoyed and knowing every sound.
Her hearing had become so defined, she could tell
The dropping of a dime.
The sounds of a car, truck, or motorbike
No two sounds were ever alike.
She knew the sound of each bird high up in the trees
And the sound of a cricket in the summer breeze.
Being sightless did not mean that she could not see
Her hands took away the mysteries.
With just touching a picture would form in her mind
To be seen as clear as day, and wipe all her doubts away.
She would run her fingers around your face
Feeling every line and every space.
She had all the gifts that GOD had given
And making life truly worth living.
With her keen hearing she could tell what was in your heart
And if you was in love – or your heart being torn apart.
Her life was about as normal as can be, but she had her
Human desires and needed a love to put out the fire.
Then her dream finally came true, when a friend told her
“I’m in love with you”!
Her parents told her – “listen to his heart and you will see
If this love is meant to be”!
She listened to his heart like a doctor with a stethoscope
And his heart did beat true – that this man’s in love with you.
Her sightless world is now complete as her heart skips a beat

I went to the clinic to consult my chest which is undergoing some contractions.
I was 15 back then, and the doctor evaluating me smirked at my young face.
'Let's do this,' I read her mind. She opened the drawer and lifted her stethoscope.
Directing it into my heart, the doctor recognized its high speed.. lab dub lab dub

But she was not convinced and doesn't want to believe in a young girl.
She just smiled and told me three hurting words, 'it was nothing.'
Explaining that maybe I was just nervous, perhaps dealing with heart breaks.
Heart breaks? Well, I've got none not even with my parents nor with my grades.

At that very moment sitting silently in front of her with table between us,
I badly wanted to retort, to express my defense. 'How could you?'
But I stood still, closed my fist calming myself she doesn't know, right?
I know I felt that pang in my heart, I stood up and closed the door behind her.

Six years had passed. Recalling the incident, how I went straight to the clinic;
how I consulted my aching heart, how the doctor slapped to me that it was nothing
made me realize that what she had altered is easier than dealing with heart breaks.
For I felt the same pang but this time it maybe scientific but not physically.

For I cannot go straight to the clinic - to wail that my heart has been beating hard;
and I will just get disappointed by their answers that no medicine can ease the pain,
That stethoscope will just hear its fast lab dub but not see how slowly it is bleeding,
That the apparatus is unseen, is out of their vicinity, and can only be created by me.

And all I can do is to close my eyes and listen to it, maybe its not, not a mere lab dub,
That maybe. Tears flowing from within will try to wash it; to cleanse the blood away,
And I'll hear the clock's tick tock and ask myself how many times had already elapsed?
Breathing that soon enough, soon I will bring my feet, carry my body, and lift the door behind.

She drew an s  shape on my foot with a stick
I lay there, paralysed with fear,
thinking was this the subtle beginning
of a programme of torture.
Her white coat and stethoscope
glinting in the strip lighting.

She asked me if I knew where i was.
I lay there, frozen with fear,
not able to open my mouth.
I could read letters on her name badge
I read it as Dr Helliday
So that's where i was
I thought, that confirms it
along with her snake charming smile.

She tried to get me to drink
But I lay there stiff with fear,
not wanting to open my mouth
in case it was poison.
She placed a wet sponge on my lips
my eyes widening in terror.

Can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?
She said gently
I lay there tensed up with fear.
I thought it must be a trap
I couldn't open my mouth
and fall in.

I was seeing things around me
that pinned me to the bed with fear.
Patients pouring blood out of windows.
shadows of nurses in nooses.
I screamed inwardly.
But could not open my mouth
for fear had clamped it shut

I was looking at your chest x rays on the lighted wall

Your straight spine centered behind your rounded ribcage
Looks like busted churchgates
from all the times you let your ghosts go

And there are bees buzzing in your shoulders only
you aren't cold this time

So much faith in what I do with words
Willing to love me like a half written gospel
we are filling in as we go

And I want to write us poetry
like the first man was asked to play the first piano

Come
dance with me to my deathbed

I am afraid
That one day I might kiss you
like a deaf stethoscope
that no longer hears your heart

That this language will grow stale
Along with your faith in me

but my knees
are riverbeds for prayer

And I carry my chest heavy like a library
full of books that hate the silence

You should know that
being a poet is more than just a choice

and maybe my body is like a library
but when I pray to you
I'll never use my inside voice

Just like I know that god used nails
to make the iron in your blood stream

That you'll be strong even when you're old
and even then
I still want you to believe in me

When we are like trains that no longer run the tracks
when we've fully mapped the topography of our bodies

But some days
our engine chests come back

and I write a poem about you that is new

And you listen
To my huff and rumble
you lift your tea and saucer with shaking hands
I close my eyes
and hear our train coming

there was a mother somewhere today
who held her child for the very first time

there was a mother somewhere today
who gave birth to a stillborn child

there was a mother somewhere today
who made the hard decision of abortion

there was a mother somewhere today
who was allowed to use a stethoscope to listen to her childs last heartbeats as the doctors unplugged him

there was a mother somewhere today
whos child came out to them

there was a mother somewhere today

Stop your stuttering heart

And attempts to explain how this is complicated

Let me lap the language from your mouth

Until the words become sound

There is nothing complicated about a moan

Or trying to catch your breath

Let me love you primal

Let me rewind your dizzy gut

So I can love you backwards

So we can start at the end

And you can see that we both die happy

There are no words to explain your presence

How I know that at least

One of those hits on my poetry page is you

Even then

You’d need a stethoscope to hear the subtle changes in my heartsong

So don’t give me reasons why this won’t work

You should know by now

That I was born to surprise people

I’m an underachiever

You can let slide by this time

We both know how this ends

Let’s get past this and

Go straight to the good part

Where I turn your doubts into sounds

Even a baby can understand

Adults coo sometimes

Let me be a quiet sigh of relief

In order to mask the mumbles

Of your fear

Let me turn you into a sound

A moan

A sigh

A quiet breath

And then

Let me love you

Soul of black folk Trevon Martin and Emmett till..
A image of the worlds ills
There's a different between mans n Gods will..
The physician has  stethoscope now breathe Yes the worlds ill
A deviant of society words that the deaf can feel..
The difference in a person defines whats real..
My ancestry.
Oh yeah cotton fields
In a dressing room being asked how my jeans of cotton feel..
I don't know cause my genes are imprinted
Reaction to fashion..
How corrupt are these thoughts of blackness that have us branded..
Called to be continents of Christ but island mindsets have us stranded..
Like how u white and you talk black..or how you black and you talk white..
There's no discrimination to ignorance Just like Gods sight..
Yet a clear division he judges the heart its darks and its lights.
He sprinkled his people the salt on earth.
Eat dirt the earth lacks flavor
Transformed to salt 
We should not conform to dirt..
Express food I wonder if God taste buds hurt..
Chefs cooking lukewarm dishes..
Serving Jesus as he spits the food out.
Now he raging through the kitchen....
Looking for the ingredients like this is not the recipe..
Where is the complex simplicity ..
No surprise that there's sickness due to obesity...
A melting *** stirred my God  blends together...
He makes us all the same feather..
Once realized we can fly together..
Wings strong enough to fly through any weather..
Fly higher than Satan's paws that filthy jungle cat...
Yet some still want to perch on his back..
A bird singing but can't see the bars on the Cage..
Try to escape and hit the bars  which causes flight to disengage..
Racism damages the wings..
Hate damages the wings..
Why does a cage bird sing....
Well I don't think Its a song its a scream..
Because if you pay attention the pitch changes once freed..
That same sound harmonizes with the breeze..
A wonderful song heard through the trees
As trees we should be deeply rooted in Christ..
In Faith not flesh that's why the forest is a mess..
Like a tree planted next to a oil spill or nuclear reactor..
And some radiation has disturbed the soil..
Fruit spring up already spoiled..
And I think of the seedlings..
Without proper cultivation grow up to be weaklings..
Jesus is the gardener prepared to work a miraculous healing..
But he only heals if your willing
Church never stops whether in or outside of the building..

if you place a stethoscope inquisitively on the
beating chest of your life, expect to hear a -
plod, plod, plod.

you'd think it to be the footsteps of a
fumbling toddler; fumbling feet
feeling the flat, alien earth.

or the muffled footsteps of a stranger
stumbling into your path, turning your
tables, stumbling into your life.

you could regret that it wasn't your
feet's soundless plodding on the moon,
that there was no greatness in your silence.

while at times you remember
the footsteps of friends converging
into your life - diverging from it.

and then to cease all speculation -
you recognise the footsteps
of god at your doorstep.

The doctor ... says...  I have a serious issue...
He say it's life threatening you guys
...
I don't know what I'm gonna do...

All this research
This inaccurate treatment
Being high to distract my lows
Not really knowing what to suppose
He gave me a date...
He claims it's an estimate, but if I keep feeling like this; this could be it.

He sends me home each visit, telling me that this is rare, but common
It happens, but don't normally conclude in such trauma
His coat, or stethoscope doesn't always mean that he has the antidote
...
As for the symptoms:

•The dry skin,
She used to help apply the Shea Butter
•My hair all over my head,
It was funny when she brushed my hair, she didn't know what she was doing
•Long nails,
She HATED that
•Morning breath the entire day
I would chase her all over the house trying to give her a kiss
•chill bumps •shivers •teeth chattering
We used to cuddle to stay warm, so we didn't use the furnace
•starvation •no appetite
She cooked 5-7 times throughout the week
•restless
I could not fall asleep until she got in from work
•angry •outburst • complaining
She always said "ahhh shut up and get over it punk"
•Listening to the talk radio station LIPZ 102.5 to be exact
I gave her my undivided attention
•heartache
I loved her

That's why it's difficult for Dr. Carmichael to prescribe me medicine
How am I suppose to treat this?
There's no special enough specialist
No surgeon so precise
Not even the smartest scientist,
divinest pastor, or
The most thoughtful psychiatrist that can save my life...

I'm doomed
All I do is sit on the couch in the house that will soon be a tomb
...
My hope is fading
My pulse has feinted
My arms are folded
My back is *****
Back and forth
My rock is steady
... My soul is light
And my eyes is heavy
I'm taking the departure hard
...
Love can be deadly

I'm way past my bedtime
Losing balance, veering to the right
Before I hit the wall
Or the cabinet or the floor
Where did this jelly come from?
I thought I had it down
It wants to come up
So let's help him up
He's already drowned
Twice we drowned him
But they kept coming up

A man I once knew
...he was a professional man...
He should have known what he was talking about
I thought he did
More often than not
I trusted him
Law and natural fact
I could see the love in his eyes
He was convinced the cessation of my problem
Was it's light dying and silently slipping off
Into the air
My, oh my, I must not have been paying attention

Another hour passed
My mind was worked up
Worked up professionally
With pure quality workmanship
But it's not gonna last
I don't care
If they invested millions of dollars
You god, Oh Mighty Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick
I'm just gonna fall asleep
I'm a-gonna sleep until I wake
And I ain't a-gonna wake up until
I'm good and ready

He seemed to know what he spoke of
He was, after all, wearing a doctor's coat
After all, he had a silver-pearl stethoscope hanging around his neck
I was tempted to believe he was a great physician
But I wasn't so sure he was a Good Doctor
Not a very good one
The only sawbones I could afford
He told me that I'm very selfish
But not to worry, he said
"All bipolars are like that
All that they see is filtered through
ME ME ME ME ME".

So I had to think about it for awhile
I had to rub it in my clay-hands brain
Until I understood it to be truth
My hardening heart beats only for me
Prayers found me on my knees
Knelt
Until my legs fell asleep
Circulation staunched, the numbness
I tried to rise and walk
I tried to rise and walk
"Come forth!" I heard. "Rise and WALK!"
I tried to rise and walk
I TRIED
Fell down three times
It was like skating in an ice rink
The pulsating music of KISS throbbing through the loudspeakers
(It was that disco knock-off they took to the charts)
I was the kid who got knocked down
I know that funny man didn't mean to run over my hand with his skate
Accidents happen
(Even if the Good Doctor says that's all a bunch of crap)
I lifted my hand to my face
I felt nothing
I thought perhaps it would take some time to kick in, that there would come a moment when the pain would crash over me tsunami-style. It would overcome me, and at that point I would not be screaming at myself anymore but at everyone. I'd curse them because they were there. I'd **** them for no good reason whatsoever. Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky twins. God knows them not, nor vouches them for His. One is chosen. The Other refused. ME ME ME ME ME. It is more cruel to be told this secret than to be kept in the dark.
Keep me in the dark.
Leave me alone.
Silence your Teaching Voice and let me sleep
Let me sleep in disbelief
Forget the part where I said,
"I ain't a-gonna wake up until I'm good and ready"

I've been put down
I'm held down to drown
Jelly air to fill my gills
No longer screaming
Abandoned my temple
To the banks of the Ohio
I gave the Good Doctor something interesting
To write in his reports

the chair in his office was uncomfortable
as was i
when he pushed his wide-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose
adjusted his stethoscope
and asked
why on earth i would want to have an eating disorder,
my body was so beautiful
his eyes lingering on my thighs
a few seconds too long
as he looked me up and down

in that moment
i didn't know whether to thank him
or get out of the room as fast as possible

i wanted to puke

A four way crossroad
A decision to make
Each one leads onward
Which one should I take?

The one that goes deskwards
A pencil in my hands
Words shall flow like water
from the tip onto the pad

The one that goes skywards
My dream I shall grasp
Villagers call my
Stethoscope to their hearts

The one that goes northwards
Riches I await
Meet people from around the globe
Maybe that's my fate

Or the one that will go everywhere
No destination I shall have
Stories from here and there
A camera for a pal

A four way crossroad
A decision to make
Each one leads onward
Which one should I take?

I woke up today,
My thoughts scrambling
Through my head,
The noise is uncomfortable,
So much that I can’t go back to sleep.

I stand up to go to work,
I untie my hands and do my usual,
I get dressed and out of the corner of my eye
Shadows dance and drink, making a mess of my room.

I try not to pay attention, as they drop me down the stairs, right to my front door.

I reach for the doorknob,
I grab and tap it.
Waiting for it to open,
But shivers run down my spine.

As my lungs fill with red and oranges as I inhale
And an emptiness only the woods understand
As I exhale,
My hands continue to tap the doorknob
From Right to left
A symphony to my hears,
Dopamine On the tip of my fingers

Suddenly but not so sudden
the door opens,

And I feel,
I feel like a knight without his armor,
Like a doctor without his stethoscope,
Like a prisoner without his cell
Like a kid without his favorite toy.

Maybe I feel too much,
Maybe feeling is not the problem here,
Maybe I’m wondering about the wrong thing
And I need to remind myself to breath
Because the emptiness its unbearable.

Something is missing,
I should go back inside.