Anonymous said: why are u getting surgery? and why not in America?
I tore something in my knee. I am living in Prague now. Also the American medical system is awful in comparison. I am pretty much completely recovered now though.
And through the decay
I find my myself
in a parody of my life,
stuck in a loop of eternal return
muddled with faint winks
of pity given by some girl sitting on my lap
when I still remembered being young.
Now, the buildings around me are held together by columns made of vines of flowers,
and as I climb them they weep and bleed down my forearms
until the old Slovak men
drop their groceries and stare at me, mouths agape.
But here I am divorced, as are they,
from those old miseries and lost struggles,
the tired nights,
the unheard songs,
the fleeting lovers and bloodied cobblestones.
Pray for me now as I shed again,
and unlike those before me,
remember my name.
I am in a hospital in Prague, getting surgery tomorrow.
going to prague tomorrow. first time off the east coast US.
The sunken skull syndrome-
The crackling away at drywall like that of burning bone.
Or maybe like the coconut partially pried
with a flathead and then nearly split entirely
by a watermelon falling several meters-
only to be shot at the last second by some nationalist sniper.
These things feel congruent unlike the bloody mess
squeezed into several bleach containers,
only to be opened from the bottom by some master with a major.
hi. I’m still alive, just been doing other things.
I’m a sleepy frowner and a grumpy downer.
As a child I dreamt of Bullwinkle stabbing me, but nowadays it’s Snidely Whiplash haunting my dreams.
Apricot nectar and powdered peach dust splattered and smothered on the faces of the onion-heads as they bob up and down on the train thinking about what they look like.
Either I’m just really sensitive or I have really poor judgement on whom I associate with. Or both.
And my left arm
can barely move,
and a splotch of it is bright red.
Once, in my mind,
a black snake
wrapped around that arm,
growing the fire
of words in its belly
(it was inspired by
a man on the subway
with all black arms.)
It will manifest
itself as a bouquet of flowers
dripping down my skin,
but never washing off.
And my right arm
is a bushel of kale
held together by
(once I held three fingers up
as I swore that I had never
swallowed that leaf
in a drink,
none were impressed.)
And on both of my forearms
there are a series of lines,
but created by a cat
scared of the wind.
My kitty scratched down the fresh skin of both arms as a reminder or some sort of warning.