Accident

He seemed, well, almost good today.
Toivo, you can't get your hopes up.
Yes, but his face wasn't sallow—
Is that one yours?  I take mine black.
Yes.  No, this one; with two sugars.
The doctor though was such a prick.
They love being told what to do.
He's my only child!  Just because—
Don't say the word Kukka, please don't.
I think your coffee's getting cold.
Rest assured I will sue the guy.
Kick him, myself I'll knock him out!
No need, I will do everything—
A mom's knuckles can beat blind courts.
I hope his surgery goes well.
He's a boxer!  I need a smoke.
I need air too...stuffy in here.
Don't forget your coffee, let me—
Oh, do you see that leaf in front?
The scarlet one?  One on the car?
Yes, Del's lips used to be that red
Where's my smoke?  They will be, Toivo.

Memories

memories are bones we find

inside unmarked burial grounds
when digging for fresh water

memories are Frankensteins
fragments forced into sense
their last words your lips her scent

memories are misleading brochures
tales with no beginnings and no ends
sickly ghosts needing doctors or priests

memories are abandoned rusting rails
they’re circuses of snapshots and sounds
floundering zoos of beauties and beasts

memories stretch from depths of the brain
through blood and flesh and through bones
like a meandering poem looking for home

Dressings

This is the only absolute bible....
And so the voices worked out the title:
Revolutionary.  Latest.  Breakthrough.
Complete and up-to-date.  Revised.  All new.
Basics.  Fundamentals.  Bare essentials—
Written by a grave face with credentials.
The ultimate authoritative guide.
The best-seller, recommended worldwide.
Art and science of.... Step-by-step how-to.
From the only expert...doctor...guru.
For dummies.  Idiots.  Morons.  Brainless.
Solutions.  Tips and tricks.  Hidden secrets.
A powerful book—good too for your health.
Gives you better sex, success, freedom, wealth.
As usual I've happened to digress:
The subject?  Salad dressings that impress.

Night Air

Physicians used to smoke  
endorsed cigarettes and coke
Scientists believed in Vulcan
drank radon water back then
but warned folks everywhere
Beware of the night air!

The Emergency Waiting Room

The walls contained a rainbow of brochures, rife 
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.  
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes. 

As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.  
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name. 
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains 
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).

The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though 
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead: 
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled." 

And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced, 
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines, 
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.  
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear! 

My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast, 
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope; 
he threw across and down my well a rope, 
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last, 
to make me human newly—healed and whole. 

My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound— 
a myth (though other foot was on the ground). 
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown: 
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes 
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve....
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:  
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms, 
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs 
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent 
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame; 
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh. 
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved  
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.  

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones  
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).