Journal 32 - Mold Cancer

I don't want cork in my belly, even if it's
cork from the Medoc region – corks are so invasive
and tasteless when they lurch into your throaty
world. My throat has diminished in confidence and
authority these recent springtime days – unfolding
like pollen-showered daisies with their nasty
mucus-generating cough. My throat feels like
mold cancer – if cancer could feel. My joints
snap but they don't hurt. My throat hurts
but doesn't snap – I think a good thing. The
room I sit in smells, reeks of sweaty gym
class clothes and socks mixed with a liberal does
of 2 year old vomit – very distinctive in its
milk-based stench. Each breath is like a
breath inhaled among the corpses of smelly
feet and bio-undegradeable waste kicking out
a post-mortem living in prime real-estate -
do not tread on the paths of the dead: ghosts
could be real even if I've never shook hands
with one. Ghosts are such close cousins to
the ancient fairy tales. Counterpacts or counter
points are always needed; all we need now
are the realists hacking away at the fine
chiseled beauty that is the Davíd. So cut
in his naked hard looks – Michelangelo knew
the ways of love, sought the ways of sweet
unrequited love – decisions can be such
surprises in their natural furtive state – whom
now I love is a mystery as old as Plato
and King David – older than the dead throbbing
lights that call to us from the ancient
night – penetrating this man's brush and that
woman's pen – asleep in deep thought the misfit
beckoned from his rocky path I grabbed his
arm and tried to prevent his physical in-
trusion to their manicured home – one more
death senseless countless death, since men
convinced Jesus and the Holy Spirit to sit back
and observe how wise man cures poverty and
homelessness.

4.10.09