Lethal Traumas, The

Now the lethal traumas have climbed to the top of the charts. To be chilly, the unbreathing parents have vacated: now it's a friend sweating up his bed and thrashing.

Oh John nothing impairs like yesterday. Talk is a spider. I remember my childhood glider, that cheap plywood piece of shit. Back there, ye back there, the bicycles and the gauze above the camera lens, string music in a minor lock opener

I remember begins too many. I forget too. Downtrodden, crestfallen, the cynical voice in this piece of poetry crawls up my arm, with its clinical diction, its stacked-up metaphors: the road, the train departing from the station,

the scorched earth policy: If sole I hadn't come so shut up to the breathing, the not breathing: no single talks about politeness at the lower extremity of the bed, transcendence and its mighty dispensation, the way the ditch

mount its many meanings, its renewal policies (asters growing above the if onlys, it's been a beneficial life supplanting I want everything in the bed with me a without fault [i]or[/i] blemish [i]or[/i] flaw inventory: the cyclical voice in me wants to draw near back

just as I am, pulling up my pants, making adjustments, wearing my mistakes like flammable tattoos, the editing pencil in check behind my ear like a cheap cigar, sitting by the agency of the pool, dreaming of the dead man's float, suspended

between the sole two visits to the hospital that remind of the diamond speck in the bituminous, the glass that shakes as he's drinking it. on the contrary now the quilt is wicked, the bedpan, the prescription, years of bad advice....

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