Before it Spreads

THE STRUGGLING has REACHED

thee ends -

to find some positive diagnosis;

the drained hologram,

the fatigue reddened shoulders,

undulating surges

that rapidity of thumb taps….

However it should happen,

to recover from some

knockout blow by Mezmerino

or whomever; there I want to refuel

and pick myself straight into

into all the depravation of tragedy

of salaries unattainable

and reality of art untouchable;

because in no way will I suffer

anymore,

plight.

Not so much scared of the Doctor

and whitecoats or even the tests

and treatments maybe,

the medieval tortures I shall be;

but the bill terrifies me.

Blow up the hospitals.

I could all curl, fetal,

writhing in pain

in the middle of

a claustrophobic operation..

But in the vacancy,

and the inability to feel good

endorphins coursing these veins,

as if my world has been

constructed, resurrected;

and through glorious paint brushes

just form me and my era;

go absorb with as much awe

as if time were so ancient

yet on the pulp a brand new text

as if Rome were still there

albeit in pieces; as if Atlantis surfaced

like my city … my people, my giving.

Anyway,

yeah so but not so much that I do not

want to suffer but I want to be remembered

for more than what he said to me,

“to see these places

that still exist. Ruins and remains.

And unearth the past and reconstruct

Things.” Oh how he turned to me

Then turned me away.

In so many ways, as if there

would be one . . . .

“well there are many tests

we can do. But without any

insurance, it can be real expensive...”

—“I would like to be sure

before it spreads….whatever it is.”

Oh don’t be silly, doc. It is nothing.

“Everything will be alright.”

Except the slow sinking feeling.