The first post-op CT blares
as it bares down on you:
reverberates in your skull,
clenches tight your jaw.
You read or hear the results
and it trails away, descending.
It may never again reach that pitch,
but neither does it wholly fade.
With each new scan or lab,
though lower than before,
you feel the waves amass,
knot, and tangle in your ears.
just like you, the stubborn
clock refuses to budge
sixteen hours now
and this final inning
bases are loaded
this kid on the other team
hits a pop fly – up, up up!
the kind of thing that
could split the seams. doc says,
he’s a big boy, I’m worried
he might be stuck, heart rate’s
dropping. she gets the forceps
makes you lift your glove
like a golden torch
near third base, steady, steady,
squint into the sun
everyone holds their breath
but there’s no time after all
before it all barrels down
in a sudden, white-hot rush
as spectating eyes bounce
ball to glove, ball to glove,
and finally, here comes
that satisfying thud
the beating heart, those sure,
strong lungs, and you,
a dream in her hands
crying now
an eruption of joy.
you’re so good at this thing
that you’ve always done,
keeping my heart in my throat.
How Do You Feel About Your Body?
after David Huddle
Bird ankles too weak for ice skates bad left eye
not constructed for multiple births breasts as big
as tractor tires enlarged mole on the back of my neck
(I left my hair long to cover it) If I filled out
a citizen’s application for my body I’d write
sturdy worker bones tough feet for calluses
blisters bruises strains all-in-all good stock
I could speed on my Hi-Flyer like a mountain stream
snake sliding downhill no Big Macs, salmon
and Caesar salad my favorites two coffees w/heavy cream
indulge in Guinness and club crackers After a stroke
I’m more sloth than eagle I still sing off-key
hot shower trickle balance my aging body on the rail
I remember the day you moved out,
how your women’s circle came
to provide support and strong arms,
how they cornered me in the kitchen,
isolated, contained, as if I was virus,
contagion.
One by one the women
carried boxes out into the light,
until just you at last, a mumbled That’s that.
I offered all I had left, shower curtain rings,
believing my charity might win
you back.
The six of you gathered
in the driveway for a group hug
and a prayer to the goddess of the rock,
while I stood on the front porch,
useless, past-tense, a man
and his damnable cock.
In the twilight yard of Sant’Isidoro,
cat and pigeon eye to eye in a stare-down,
ignore the bang of the cancello
as I enter from my Sunday passegiata,
locked in fur-and-feather face-off.
It could just be for show,
entertainment for passing tourists on the Via degli Artisti,
since after allowing me a photo opp, the pigeon takes flight—
“That cat’s too fat and lazy to chase anything,”
Father Joe tells me later.
“The pigeon could have stepped a few paces closer.”
Among the million cats of Rome
ours have grown too used to the tolerance
of St. Francis or perhaps the benevolence
of tourists dispensing food at the fence.
I’ve watched these felines
lazing in hot Roman summer sun,
siesta-ing most of the day.
Now I’m convinced
they’re not working nights either.
On the way to minor asteroids
waxing a million turtles all the way
down to Jupiter, a red dust storm
running new rivers, sprouting
floating gardens and gigawhales
swimming in seas of oxygen
and bergs of dry ice welcomed
an aging man, broad in staturehis suit blue
and necktie red tied unseemly long past
his belt buckle, his dress
shirt thoroughly wet with perspiration.
He was alone
in his age and power—
a distant vinyl record popping echoes
sent scratches ‘cross a terraformed
Mars’ Acidalia Planitia coaxing
this bloat king to kick his heels
in anxiety up at rusty heaven as he saw
mama a rockin’ rollin’ bitch comin’—
The Moonage Daydream descending.
His digs in the sky, sojourns on moons
Phobos and Deimos orbiting ridiculous
speeds.
David Bowie flung out his arms
with splendor—guitar slung on his back
like Elvis.
But the cringing ape man
gnawing
on a Filet O’Fish,
fries and Diet Coke,
The Donald fixed narrow eyes like slits
on him and whipped his golden ray gun out.
Not tonight!—cried The Starman.
Sweet baby let me blow
your mind instead.
My name is Ziggy,
I make love with my Ego,
just like you.
I was born a Jumpin’ Juniper Jones.
I died beloved
Bowie. Yeah baby,
I wear makeup—
my hair is red, just like yours.
Some call me Stardust.
When it was cool to be a fascist—
I donned the Thin White Duke—
but everybody loved me—
only you became a President
and no one bought
your trivial fond records.
This soul love cut from a British voice
so illegal, so alien, so afraid of Americans,
afraid of the world, he had theatre and scars
in his heavens, in all his years of danger
leaping he faced the stance of this hopeless man,
and thus the All-Bowie shook the dust,
the juicy glam, and the richesse of purple razz
off his thrusting Nazz
and God-given Ass—
then his delicious rosy hips
uttered a throated sigh,
tossing orange hair
into the sky.
UHN!
The depressed walrus contemplated him
with shock, dropping the gun
with an entire
undigested mouthful
of Mars McDonaldland
tumbling from his mouth—
and for the first time
in the President’s life:
he told the truth.
“Star—Duster—whoever you are—
It’s no godawful small affair
to this ape
with his thinning hair,
and fellow citizens shouting no,
the wife is saying
“best go”.
My kids and country are liars
like me—
there’s people dying from
watching T.V.
It happened to me on my watch,
would they change
by the way
I walked?
(cue orchestra strings)
A good father knows
what to do,
You weren’t Ziggy,
The Nazz, or Duke
to your babes
you were just a Dad!
Can you help me
to focus on—”
(((((Lift – off)))))
This is ground control to Donald Trump.
Your mind is everywhere.
On the papers, what you eat,
and what you wear!
It’s time to die to self if you dare!
“This is Donald Trump to Ground Control—
I don’t fit anymore.
Its every single day I pay a whore.
I want real love, Ziggy Man, I am a bore!”
Ground control to Donald Trump,
you’re dead inside the whole thing’s wrong –
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
“Can you see, I’m floating
in my fat enormous body!
All the world was mine!
Space Force left me too
and there’s nothing I can do!”
Hahaha! My, my, someone fetch a priest.
You’re such a beast.
Don you’re lyin’ and you play
a rotten fortune teller on television
but I’ll tell you who you are.
We’re still waiting on your real song.
It’s outta sight.
Don’t ask me to get you out
of this prison—
you can’t afford the ticket.
