PLAY FOOTBALL ON FRIDAY THROUGH MUD AND THROUGH SOOT, wake up the next morning you're missing a foot. Hop yourself through a hoop game, your Saturday's grand, wake up Sunday morning with only one hand. On Sunday you're crying, these thoughts you despise. Monday rolls around, you've lost one of your eyes. On Monday you eat comfort food for relief. Go to brush Tuesday morning―bare gums with no teeth.

What's happening here? Oh what sorcerer's curse? One foot and one hand you could handle at first. You dare not speak words lest your mandible burst. And you mustn't have ***. (Losing THAT'd be the worst!)

So you lock down all actions, your life paralyzed, but there go your earlobes, biceps, hair, and thighs. By evening on Thursday you fear you'll be dead. One week to the day you wake only a head.

So you roll down the stairwell and "head" for the doctor. When you pass by the park children use you for soccer. Deflated and bruised, when you roll by the courts, the basketball kids rub your face on their shorts.

At last the Doc's office! You wish you had cancer! At least in that case there'd be some easy answer. Doc looks at you sideways. He's smug and quite snotty. "Just what would you like sir, a prosthetic body?" He writes a prescription for pain medication―shoves the script in your mouth as he calls his next patient.

You roll down the boulevard, scalp over chin, back to your apartment to let death set in.

Arriving at home with the pills in your mouth, you find you're not alone, someone's there on your couch.

Your Father! Your Father!

He says Hello, Head.

But this can't be your Father 'cause your Father's dead! This can't be your Dad. Look his eyes are aflame! And he just called you "Head." Your real Dad knows your name.

He sees you're no dullard (though battered and weak). His skin changes color as he starts to speak:

I'm the first fallen angel. I equate with upheaval. You know me as Lucifer: Master of Evil. It is I who enacted this tragic infection. See one week ago Jesus pulled his protection. All evidence says that the Lord thinks you've sinned. I know not your transgression―that's between you and Him. But for some unknown reason He's left you exposed, and to exploit this new opening I am predisposed.

So let's make a deal! Acceptance makes you whole! The price is quite nominal, (you guessed it) your soul! I'll restore your body. You'll forever be proud! You'll be richer, more handsome, and better endowed! You'll have women, a mansion, the respect of your peers, remain youthful forever, wisdom beyond your years. And if you decline, well,  for you, that's a loss: to be the main ingredient in my 'Special Eternal One-Eyed Head Soup with Maggot Sauce.'

So what do you say? The decision is yours. A millionaire's life or worms eating your pores?

You think of your Father. How he raised you in church. The love of your Mother. How she valued good works.

Then you think of your body. You were an athlete, a dancer.

So you open your mouth and give Satan his answer.

Here in the capitol
of lowercase relations
your drink is holding
yard sales for you.

Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers
and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins --
a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity,

trying to

become round.

If a condition of space travel was one could nevermore return,
how many astronauts do you think
there'd have been?

More stars in lawschool than the cosmos.

Somewhere there's a story
of Indians singing
instead of pointing and laughing
when the Pilgrims came
and the Atlantic dropped off
into the earth's crust behind them. You see

pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died
drunk driving in World War II knows that.

But still

ovens dream of one day being iceboxes,
and the ice cubes all know this
and it makes them sweat.

they say
"in this day and age
sane people don't memorize phone numbers anymore
the times are changing
don't you know?
it'll work out, it just needs time
things change with time
don't you know?"
and believe me, I tried
but I can only give myself to you
so many times
until it begins to feel futile
and unbearable
I'd call your number, thinking
maybe with hearing your voice
I'd be rebuked by reality
but with each call
I was ****** deeper
into the black hole I created
that is you
I never doubted your fidelity
but rather my own
how close I've come
to giving you up
and how often I did
scared to abide for even another second
because your hollow excuses didn't prevent
the pain that shadowed
every cancelled dinner date
every 'I owe you' and
every missed call
I don't know what it was
or where it came from
that awful urge that dialed
when I knew you were asleep
or out of town
but it didn't take long
for the string of words
"you've reached
the voice mailbox of
five five five zero one three eight
please leave your name and message
at the tone
or press pound
for more options"
to be etched into my brain
where the sound of your voice
used to be
it's kinda funny, isn't it?
how I never cared for
the sound of your voice
but I figured
if I heard it enough
I'd get used to it with time
funny how I hardly ever heard it at all
funny how I can't remember it now

I still miss you in my sleep
do you still hear my voice
when I'm not around?

__________________

a girl with a mind like a tunnel
somewhere amidst a winding mountain road
quiet and familiar
the tunnel
calm and inviting

as his headlights
approach
from the distance
particles of light
start finding their way inside
the tunnel less dim
with every
heartbeat
until
everything is illuminated within
fractions of a second
his headlights span out
into every corner
and every crevasse
and brings every brushed away memory  
into full view
warmly embracing every hidden secret  
and for a moment
the tunnel becomes
unnaturally bright
          the kind of bright that makes you
          squint your eyes and
          hold your breath and
          dig the tips of your fingers
          into the foam of your steering wheel
          but you don't get afraid because
          your eyes adjust before
          the fear sets in
and when your eyes do adjust
you forget that it's ever been dark at all
and you feel as though this light
can last forever
          but our eyes can only handle
          so much light  

now he's approaching the exit
and his headlights
are reaching out
beyond the arch of the tunnel
far into the thick woods and towards the
mountain tops
as he passes through on his way
to some final destination
and he never even thought to stay

so cherish
the very last seconds
and cherish
every fraction of his
beautiful bright light
before the tunnel
goes dim
and everything is
quiet
and all that is left is a numbed pain
          the kind of pain you feel
          when your pupils
          dilate
          so fast
          they hurt