1628

A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery—
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in—
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring—
Of juleps, part are the Jug
And more are in the joy—
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee—

Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.

On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.

No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.

He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.

He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.

She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.

One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.

With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.

"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.

Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.

For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.

On campus--at the very top of the new
eagle pole--a raven struts, one fleck of blood
stuck to his beak from morning carrion, bright
black eyes the same primeval color
as those on the pole.  This ode to nature,
this prayer, this harmony of adzeman’s skill,

tradition, inspiration, and sacred task—I’ll
admire it later—was carved by folks who knew
from childhood each crest and its nature.
Mostly from the clan, and of course blood
relatives, they memorized each color
of each crest, how to mix together bright

pigments from this root, that bulb--right
amounts of everything, reagent to skill
to alchemy--required to make each color
sing.  The importance of ritual to renew.
Significance of Nature, consequence of blood.
Black iron raven in landscaped nature

patch consults his brother.   “Our nature
is belligerent, our destiny to chase bright,
shiny objects and live off the blood-
sticky leavings of another’s ****.
Don’t you think we should blaze a new
path for ourselves?”  Replies the other,  “The color

of your coat is lighter than the color
of your mood today.”All around them Nature
labors.  “Brother, we don’t need a new
direction.  Our future, as always, is bright.
We’re the keepers of knowledge.  Our skill
at irony keeps us relevant. As long as blood

is red They will need us.” He ***** on the blood
red head of the top crest.  A streak the color
of snow bounces down the faces.  “If you ask, I’ll
reply,” he cackles, which makes Nature
grin.  A fuzzy red vole begins to climb right
up the front of the pole, as I realize how new

it is, how fresh the pine.  When I think of the blood
shed by men for money I am struck dumb.  Right here--the only color
green you ever need--Nature.  I’d as soon carve as ****.

11/3/10

one word. one thing
shows up on my face.

everybody knows it is a
keepsake:
keep away from me today,
for fks sake!

certain peculiarmornings
wake with a cross on forehead.

days when you certain,
everything worth saying
has been written, sung,
not a **** thing left to
contribute, except whining.

no way to purge, the compulsion
welling up, coursing down.
this overwhelms, my outlet store,
permanent closed, sign says
don’t ya know it’s a recession.

a one man recession.
no government intervention
gonna come my way.

the notion that I’ll never just
once more, feel the thrill of a
first love, a new born progeny,
woman, baby, poem, no diff,
wrecks me badly, worried sun consults
my animal friends, what’s to be done?

knowing the answer to my curse is,
not one wiling to courage to curettage
the lining of my decrepitude,
the end then, of no more next time.

though there is a first here. ever.
first time, every stanza writ,
closed off, finally ended, with a flourish,
a puncture of a period.

~~~~~~~~

postscript:


the closing scheduled for now,
have to change the name, says York,
it’s the common law, I’m legal bound,
gonna sign the documents as
no more love poetry.

919am Wed Jul 22 2020

I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

24 hours till my last breath, 24 hours till my inevitable death
Thought I had forever, but forever goes by so fast
Most people never know, which day is their last.
I thought knowing would be a blessing,
but it’s nothing more than distressing
I’m young, not ready to go,
oh God, can I have more time to borrow?!
I thought I’d grow old, experience much more of life
But this fear is consuming, piercing like a knife.
I can’t tell my family, it would simply break their hearts
But I need them with me as my life falls apart

23 hours till I’m dead and gone,
Thursday, November 1st, the beginning of dawn.
At least there’s some beauty in dying at sunrise,
Darkness no more, only hopeful light in the skies.
I write letters to all whom I love, saying all I can possibly think of.
The ink has bled from my fallin’ tears,
It’s so hard to reminisce these past 22 years.
Was it all worth it? The pain and the stress,
Only to remember all my joy and success.
Though I’m not ready to leave and say goodbye,
At least I know, I’ll have no regrets when I die.


22 hours till my time to go, a talk with God, my soul I do owe
I pray for those I’m leaving behind,
Comfort, peace I hope they do find
I close my eyes to receive my last rites,
Wondering what it’ll be like walking into the lights.
Will I be reunited with souls I have lost
Or for my sins will I be paying the cost.
I sure hope that whatever awaits,
Is nothing short, of the pearly white gates


21 hours, I know they’ll go by quick,
Counting down these hours, it’s making me sick.
I call a family meeting, to tell them the news,
I’m so choked up but it’s too late to refuse,
“There’s something I have to tell you guys”, I start off to say
“I’ve been to the doctors and it seems today is my last day.”
Brother looks confused as he doesn’t understand,
“How can this be? Death is rarely ever planned?”
“I have meningitis, from bacteria caught too late,
End of life plans, I was told to create."
Mother holds me close as she starts to cry,
“Another opinion” she says, “it’s something we have to try!”
“I’ve had multiple consults mom, I have to accept my fate.
If this life were a game, then my time is calling checkmate”
Sister wipes a tear rolling down her face,
Dad comes over, and says “family embrace!”
“We’ll get through this together”, brother starts to say.
“Trust in God,” dad says, “everything will be okay.”


20 hours now, I know the end is near,
I’m trying to be brave, but I’m trembling with fear.
A sunflower stamp seals my notes with wax hot,
I place them on my bed, to be found in the right spot.
I close the door, back I’ll never again look,
Finally ready to enjoy this final chapter of my book.


They say that the present, it is truly a gift,
19 hours left, my attitude has to shift.
“Let’s have a campout, by that park Rouge Hill”
Right by the water, it's the perfect place to chill
I help my family pack up the car, good thing Rouge Hill isn’t that far
With blankets, chairs and wood for a fire,
Can’t forget ma’s cooking, it’s all, I desire.


18 hours and we’re walking along the shore,
Trying to push through, my body is really sore.
I try not to wince, or show that I’m in pain
As I won’t feel much at all, once I’ve been slain.


17 hours the wind is cold and brisk,
I jump in the water, what’s life without some risk.
Submersing my head, I’ve been swallowed whole,
Being under water, nature in control.
Here right now, I’m truly at peace, in the water, it’s the best release.


Only 16 hours left, so I climb out,
The hot blazing fire, it’s easy to scout.
Sister wrapped in a blanket oh so toasty,
“Everything okay?” mom says, I reply, “mostly”
Brother brings over a big deck of cards,
Dad’s playing guitar, you can hear it for yards,
I have the biggest grin spread across my face,
home is with you, for a place is just a place.


How many hours now, 10 plus 5, 15 hours till I’m no longer alive.
I pour us apple cider, for it warms the heart,
Nothing like a hot drink, when life’s falling apart.
Around the fire, songs we do sing,
each and every word, to them I cling.
Our singing gets louder, at the top of our lungs,
energetic passion rolling from our tongues



14 hours, is that really the time? It flying by, that must be a crime
We eat dinner, telling stories all the while,
laughing so hard, making my time worthwhile.


13, 13, it’s getting down to the crunch,
this unspoken tension ain’t just a hunch.
I don’t want to be a damper and spoil the mood,
But let’s be honest, there’s no point being allude.
“Hey everyone, I think we should discuss,
the plan when I die, I don’t want you to fuss”
“I want you to plant, a sunflower seed,
I want you to live as if tomorrow ain’t guaranteed.
Sunflowers are symbols of warmth, light, hope,
That God is with you when it’s difficult to cope.
Treat those around you with utmost respect,
The importance of kindness, don’t ever neglect
This is how, you can remember me, live your life at the fullest degree”


12 more hours, I pull my sister aside.
“The amount that I love you, surpasses love worldwide
I need you to be strong, to not fall apart
For I’ll never leave you, I’ll always be in your heart
You are so special, I hope you never doubt, how beautiful you are, inside and out
Don’t ever feel the need to follow the crowd, for you are enough, trust me, be proud.”


11 more hours, what can I say,
to you my dear brother, I’d be here all day
“I’ll never forget all the adventures we’ve had,
racing our bikes in the forest with dad
All the road trips squished in the back seat,
long choir practice with your piano so sweet
All our discussions of life so profound
When you were 8 and scraped your knee on the ground
How you amaze me each and every day,
you’ll continue to do so when I’m gone away
Wherever I’ll be, I’ll be looking out,
there by your side, your life throughout.”


10 more hours, “who wants a s’more?”
Who can resist a gooey graham galore.
I pass around, marshmallows to roast,
dad gets the coffee, I prepare a toast
“A toast to my life, and to my final day.
A toast to living it, the best possible way.
A toast to you brother and all future success.
A toast to you sister, the world you’ll impress.
A toast to you father, whom I deeply appreciate.
A toast to you mom, this I dedicate,
You brought me into this world, life to me you gave
I hope in your heart, these words you do save.
For I can never repay you for all that you’ve done,
Your unwavering love, from the moment my life begun.
I’ve never met a soul as kind as you.
You inspired me, more than you ever knew.
Please find joy mom, you are so strong,
life’s brought you pain but know you belong,
Belong in this family, belong in our hearts,
you are so beautiful with all perfect parts.
Mom I love you, I wish I could profess,
but no amount of words can measure or express.”


9 more hours, time to talk to my dad.
He starts the conversation, that makes me real glad.
“I remember when you used to fit in my arm
The moment you were born, I tried to protect you from harm
You were so little, look at you now…”
He starts to choke up, furrowing his brow.
“Dad…” I say, “I never said this enough,
but you taught me a lot, being so tough.
You taught me to aim for dreams so high,
you taught me to work hard, myself to apply.
You taught me to appreciate the little things in life,
I wasn’t always easy, forgive me for all past strife.
Your dedication and effort was never ignored,
I know your love, in it, was poured
I need to say this before I bid adieu,
thank you for everything, I love you too.


8 more hours, can I slow down the clock,
all I am hearing is tick tock tick tock.
I think I’ve said all that I needed to say,
I’m feeling so tired, down I want to lay.
On thick blankets spread upon the grass,
I lie with my family, accepting time will pass.
Looking at the stars, shining up above,
I feel blessed to be surrounded by so much love.


7 hours, my breath begins to slow,
trying to stay awake, we hold hands in a row.
“Are you afraid?” says a voice in the dark.
“I’ve been afraid since fate made its mark.
That being said, it does make it better,
being with you”, my eyes are getting wetter.


6 more hours, I take out my will, I had it drawn up in case I got ill
Who knew that I’d need it so soon, but with death, no one’s immune
“You will need this,” I say to mom,
“my body I don’t want you to embalm
Any organs, tissues that are viable,
please donate, I know you’re reliable
They will be much more of use,
if someone’s pain, it can excuse.”


5 hours left till my last respiration,
I look at the sky in pure admiration
The number of stars are impossible to count,
the beauty of life, our minds can’t surmount.
The depth of existence, our egos obscure,
Maybe when we die, the answers we’ll know for sure
This world around us is so very pretty,
I wanted to see more, it’s really such a pity.


4 hours now, my body is shutting down,
gasping for air as if I’m about to drown.
My breathing is laboured, it’s difficult to speak.
I hug my family, though I am weak.
Death is getting closer, I feel it in my bones,
I don’t want to move and let out any groans.

3 hours now, something doesn’t feel right,
3 hours now, my insides are tight.
My organs are giving up one by one,
the elephant on my chest sure weighs a tonne.
I’m trying to be strong but life’s escaping me,
fighting to stay alive is painful misery.


2 hours to go, I think I’m falling asleep,
with heavy eyes I see my family weep.
With all the energy I have left to spare,
I say “I love you. Please don’t despair.”
I’m holding on to life, they are holding on to me,
Tearfully mom says, “It’s okay, go be free.”


I close my eyes and fall asleep,
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep.
This last hour of my inevitable death,
I peacefully release, my last breath.

holding everybody in arms
of a bowl to catch
what we cry.
Turning the saltwater into oceans,
mirrors still enough that we
can see, watch ourselves try.
And for those who like waves she
pulls at the tides,
rough hands smoothing the sand,
and when she thinks she can't
get it right she consults the moon,
watching and learning till she's
ready to teach.
And for those of us who don't
like the beach,
she holds her hands out to us
with palms up, lifting the salt
away and the water up,
sending our tears
purified
to the sky to rain down on us,
fresh and quiet
every one.

A bruised commitment of
                          Frustration
             Sweetly sung through lips
                        Of deception
    As my heart melted my mind drifted
           As love held me it crushed my
                               Sanity
  Leaves me in bundles that confuse me
          How sweet the taste consults
                                  Me

Whoe'ver the still examines, must define
The wond'rous shifts of the immortal Time;
To kindly witness, the graybeard's silent gaze
From youth to age, from guidebook to learned ways.
Divided only by the fixed life stage,
The youth consults, and the elderly explain.
Slow the transition when the hours date,
From mighty Boy's knees to old aching gait.
While for the Old Man's loss the Young Boy gains,
Old Men comfort and Young Boys wisdom attains.
Here Boy listens to the old learned ways,
There in silent gaze wistful hungry boyhood stays.
Mem'ries and rememb'ring give time for time,
And young knees below, and old above climb.
While simple youngster shake the leg of old,
Experienced veteran like prophet hold,
Eager minds and submission mix their servile roles,
Lads and Late in waiting for their parole.
Smiles and sighs, proverbs and plays life abound,
And form a life-cycle that goes round and round.

Trying to keep my cool
but you played me a **** fool
got my **** hopes up
even though I knew you would flop
you do it every time
but every time I expect different results
knowing deep inside
my first instinct consults
"Don't get your hopes up" It says
but nonetheless here I am.

Your hypocrisy- wings
Your bureaucracy- wings
Your insults- wings
Your consults- wings
Your expectations-wings
Your impatience-wings
Your resignations-wings
Your demands-wings
Your commands-wings
Your arrogance-wings
Your disinheritance-wings
Your apathy-wings
Your cruelty-wings
Your duality-wings

Bye, bye! Fly high, high away

…For I have crossed through fire
over seas bordered by time.
Hazy seem the heat-licked days
when dreams consumed the mind.

Some men may claim the cross too long
and leave the stretch unclaimed.
Though unbought frontiers have no cost
to build up or to tame.

Do not offer Kings or Gods
reign over death or birth,
for who consults tenants of hell
on rules of life on Earth?

A taper, burnt down near to ash
might be snuffed without pain,
but life roaring with candlelight
may flicker down again.

Artaud consults a witch doctor, as

chicken wire winks around a martian

sand dune.

a screen experiences morning sickness

during the moon's live feed.

who's busy drumming in-between her

knuckles--as she squeezes through tunnel

vision.

just to see Pythia rolling on the ground to

put herself out, in preparation for an

offering to Helios.

a sallow pouch of poultry skin with an

egg in it.

to exchange her all-seeing blindness with

Helios'--as his: "Nerve Meter" twitches.