I sat in a high tech chair
(in a low lit clinical room)
with large hollow eyes like an insane lemur
while Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation
sliced out bad parts good parts rotten parts unnecessary parts
and all I could think of was Dalí’s and Buñuel’s
Un Chien Andalou
(you know the part)
peppered with:
John Coltrane, Miles Davis, an ice cold highball, wingtip shoes, tapioca, castor oil,
my infant daughter being stuck by needles in her heels for countless blood tests, oil, meth,
the honest brutality and beauty of mortal (moral) decay, James Baldwin, cancerous nodes, tulips,
Bach, Faulkner, Vincent, Pollock, Basquiat, Schnabel, von Karajann, Bukowski,
The Clash, Robert Johnson, Novocaine, tooth extraction, and Buddha.
Young man: you will forever be the three-year-old boy with blonde hair
and a crooked nose who never found the perfect country.
Young man: you will forever be the flawed contestant who may have failed
but had some fun taking a turn at it;
Young man: …
Sir?
Sir.
You’re ok to go now.
I ask for my parts; shortLeancuts…like at a body shop where they leave the belts, fans, spark plugs,
filters, in a plastic bag on the floor for you to…
but they refuse; medical waste goes in a special bin;
saved for Tyler Durden to make soap.
Put these on underneath your sunglasses, they say.
And this will be eighty-five dollars.
(I have health insurance)