© By Boinkaz
My flesh freezedries and flaps
like blouses on a drying rack.
Muscles sizzle like seared strips of folded chicken
evenly browned, turned until I’m done
by diurnal cranks of flaming sun.
Thanks to pills I do not dream
yet harpies in white peer at spectral densities in MRIs
cartograph the growing rivers in my brain
and ponder why I don’t think right.
They dream of the coming day
when they have a physical sample
and an answer that will earn them a Ph.d.
A snake with a camera
traces the path forged by roughage
through my innards,
It finds the Red Sea to my slowing heart.
It eyes small stalagtites of fat
or arteries canaled with use.
It stops to pry out
the diamonds of compressed death
growing within your pyloned breasts.
And yet as I grasp evermore for
extra days that I really don’t deserve
my iron horse still gives off steam.
Or it puffs anyway
like the little engine that shouldn’t.
It ought to have been derailed by indians long ago
whooping crookedly in a forgotten silent film
among swelling boulders of hardened prostate.
Back then the action scenes didn’t last more than four hours.
And we could live with that.
Romance was a pleasant end to an evening
not discussed on Oprah.
Where we smoked Lucky Strikes and danced,
you in your flesh toned slip
and me in white Fruit of the Loom underwear.
Back those nights
light came from stars
and sound came from
animals crying arias to
each other in darkness.
Now we walk together
to the doctor
to the home
to the grave
our bodies soon to be rendered against
our will as product.
Our eyes cast to the future
that everyone says we’ll miss.
It’s for the young to travel to other planets
to dissect the scat of God to see if he exists.
Not for us
for we’ll find out soon enough.