"gurneys" poems
"you are so strong"
my eyes stared into nothing,
burning with the absence of tears.
i knew there would be a point
where i could not cry anymore.
what was everyone seeing?
because all i felt was weakness,
pain,
emptiness.
my exterior was bruised and beaten
but only inside could i feel the effects.
i was not strong
i was fragile,
scared,
and vulnerable.
frustrated by words of praise
i sank deeper into my delusions,
and perfected my 'brave face'.
i was not strong
i was struggling.
listening to the vital carts
wheel in and out,
my door never a separation
but a portal to demons
wielding gurneys,
needles,
charts and machines.
i was restless in my immobility.
i was not strong
i was numb.
calling for my mother at 4:00 am
she carried my weight,
she held my hand,
she washed my hair,
she changed my clothes,
she slept, barely,
at my feet.
i was not strong
my mother was.
days piled on;
hours lost in isolation
maddening my mind
and diminishing my willpower.
with every test,
measurement,
and procedure
i felt helplessness
swallow the living light in me.
still, i complied,
i waited,
i did what was asked.
i was not strong
i was a quiet fire.
looking at my damaged body,
examining my inflamed veins.
my face was swollen,
my hair matted.
i shook in my skin
disassociating my identity.
i was not my condition
i was not my self disgust.
i can not say that i feel better
just different,
which is neither positive or negative.
reflecting on 10 days as a ghost
getting acquainted with myself,
filling in the blanks.
i was not strong
i was surviving.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
Here we are again, in the deathmask of the city spinning.
The circumcised sea with its crocodiles and scars.
Never is the onrush of blood so violent the falsehoods
of the sky that drip neon on our heads
from desiccated clouds so true
This is the wild:
To the clusterfucked and cloistered swimming
in their bowls of soup and the scuttled
shells synchronous in their bass pulse beeping
to the blackhats who don’t believe
their messiah will ever come because they hear
the trump of doom every second of every day
yet they still stomp in their flatbeds for joy
and the prismatic dead who drag themselves from
their gurneys to march through the alleys
like tuskless elephants shoving their fingers
into the sun’s fumarole determined
to disintegrate into a mist of Krylon and copper
where we carry our concrete world slung
over our shoulders and the ravenous
moon in its ellipse above beached night heaving,
eyes curling in their sockets like gunsmoke smoldering
hearts humming like taut snares beheaded fish
in front of us, beheaded bodies behind us
I drag mine along by the hair.
To the children and the panhandlers who greet
the lion like hello kitty
and the skittish magnetic few in their
lightning-spaded furrows
on the ecliptic chained but leaping ever farther
and higher like the wrecking ***** pendulum
and all the naked lost milling among the mummified
tenements, waving Geiger counters before them
as they wander the sweaty street holding their heads
high as they grind flesh against flesh
pulverizing themselves into rubble
measuring the toll of time by destruction
drinking in mercury and hard water and
shrapnel and gamma and fire and gold
to them I say:
turn your hourglass on its side turn
your hourglasses on their sides
then acknowledge me so I can die in peace.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:35 PM UTC
How much time have I wasted?
Being sad and low
How much time have I wasted?
In hospitals, on gurneys
How much time have I wasted?
Hating instead of loving
The days go by and by
The flow effortlessly past
Such as breath from a mouth
Simple even, child's play
Days months, and years pass
No more wasting time
Time to make the best
Of this forgotten time
That we can now enjoy
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
Waiting, time seems to stand still in this place
The endless white walls and white floors,
One can never really tell where one ends and the other begins
Like a maze with hallways, paths, and dead-ends.
Feeling lost and alone in this sterile hell
The smell of iodine thickens the air
Disturbing silence in halls so pristine
Carts and gurneys and tools that gleam.
There are loved ones, and some that were lost
They were never really accounted for
Perhaps we are all just a tag to be placed on a toe
But until we all die I guess we won’t know.
We all lose something when we walk through those doors
Either a piece of ourselves or something more
Generic rooms filled with half living people
Sanity is slipping away, perhaps it was never there to begin with.
The small children remind us of the life we no longer have
But we reach, and we grasp; we hold fast to false hope
But life is so short, fragile, and fleeting
Death comes unexpected, you have been warned.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
I don't know destitute.
I could use the bathrooms
In McDonalds,
If I eat there.
I'm no refugee.
Neither are you.
We have computers, not canvas.
I warmed up the coffee today
And the dishwasher needs to go through
For the third time this week.
Homeless: We have them.
Poor: We'll always have them.
Hungry: Look to the soup kitchens.
Sick: The gurneys are lined in the halls.
Death: It's all around, and increasing.
And still, in that tent or Uber taxi
A child is born to change all this.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I'm seated across from my stomachache.
The diner mutates into a morgue.
The tables are gurneys with checkerboard shrouds.
Is this conversation - or autopsy?
I explore an intriguing potential corpse
-unflinching under my lancet eyes
-numb as my curious scalpel pries
as I try to dissect what this means to me.
It might mean a great deal
(perhaps too much).
With delicate pressure cracks appear
STOP!
Questions cause fragile things to break...
Relationships all die premature deaths.
I am maladroit when I handle hearts.
Then I wait for the last breath,
"Let's keep in touch,"
and watch as my wounded friend departs,
sanguine about the mess I've made
of my latest stab at intimacy
when I dropped my guard like a flensing blade
and opened myself up as well.
Mistake!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
hospital gowns
wedding gurneys
ashes to ashes
you are my end-all
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
I don’t want to live as a loner
So I become an ***** donor
Words compose my heart
I develop into art
That I impart
To those looking for blood
And those looking for love
While both push me in mud
Until my insides are no more
Through the divide I soar
To implore for the end of war
But the world keeps turning
Like the people lying on gurneys
Who’s depression has them hurt me
So I try to give them my eyes
To keep them alive
But much to my surprise
They say they want to die
When the whole point is to survive
So I offer them my legs
To help move them ahead
But they just lie in bed
Wishing they were dead
So I offer my exhausted lungs
To help them breathe
To climb the ladder’s rungs
So they’ll be set free
But they don’t want my disease
And prefer to wither in the breeze
On a time killing spree
Lamenting the life they lead
To me it’s kind of funny
If I offered drugs or money
They’d be jumping like bunnies
But instead they hunt me
For telling them what they don’t want to hear
That they’re the driver and they must steer
So I offer them my ears
That ignore their fears
But since it’s not what they want
They claim I tease and taunt
Saying I’m giving them lip
Without the quips
Just the whip
In my insensitive grip
But I’m trying to give away my brain
To block the reality show refrain
That numbs their pain
Making them empty and hollow
My shell of a body will soon follow
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
Well they encourage your complete cooperation
Send you roses when they think you need to smile
I can't control myself because I don't know how,
And they love me for it honestly, I'll be here for a while
So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff
Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough
So give them blood, blood, blood
Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood
A celebrated man amongst the gurneys
They can fix me proper with a bit of luck
The doctors and the nurses they adore me so,
But it's really quite alarming cause I'm such an awful **** (oh thank you)
I gave you blood, blood, gallons of the stuff,
I gave you all that you can drink and it has never been enough
I gave you blood, blood, blood,
I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC
People on my paper
Taper
From my eraser
For I’m safer
Avoiding their paper cuts
In my lonely rut
As a homely nut
Who’s doors are shut
My notebook
Notes looks
To quote crooks
Who float hooks
To trick innocent fish
To do as they wish
Because I want bliss
I write down their list
Of how to make mist
Receipts
Of deceit
For defeat
At my feet
Are blank sheets
With no signature
Because I’m immature
And don’t admit I hurt
The world keeps turning
As textbooks are burning
So I’m incapable of learning
Why those who spurn me
Put me on gurneys
The stationery
Stated the scary
Apothecary
That makes us weary
Was the way to parry
The judges staring
At my pages tearing
From my burden bearing
Attempts at caring
But the judges became more imposing
My life they were hosing
Constantly nosing
Sympathy posing
Secretly hoping
A shotgun loading
Equaled my foreboding
Then through the papyrus
I saw your iris
Infecting virus
Distracting from the pain
Of the words on the page
Calming my rage
Like a sobering mage
But a paper ***
Playing God
Knowing odds
Said I’m flawed
Sending an origami
Tsunami
Upon me
With a piece of parchment
Showing where my heart went
How plainly evident
I wasn’t heaven sent
The text
Said ***
Was next
So I flexed
Which indexed
My intentions
As extensions
Of *** tension
My lousy excuse
Of a paper noose
That was obtuse
Cut you loose
After my poor example
Of a newspaper scandal
Making our fire burn ample
Incinerated our paper candle
I decide not to stay
Through this paper mache
Facsimile fray
Dominion grave
So a road I pave
With paper plates
For the wasteful fate
Of an empty slate
Through days I’m wading
Calendar fading
Ink degrading
The endless waiting
As my head is deflating
Because my construction paper
Always becomes obstruction vapor
So I become a substance faker
Loveless taker
Only when I finish my paper route
Will I see that my shameful doubt
Kept me out
Of record books
For I was shook
And my eraser took
The writing off the page
As I die of old age
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC