years

Sunday, April 5, 2009 at 5:13pm

***

a blurb under your photograph:
looks like Joan Rivers in the morning.
graves in her hands as if she knows that everyone she
touches is going to die.

a post-it note on your back:
kick me. No, really. just kick.

what you said to me, 1889:
according to Freud, let's get this business out of the way.
feel around my hairline with your fingers.
sing Frank Sinatra like the moon is really flyable
and you aren't blueing your blues all over the bed.

how i replied, 1890:
and so we love, stop loving, begin to
notice that our skin is developing
bite marks at every opening.
ouch that's so private!

doctor's notes, five years later, 1895:
patients differ in brain waves.
during Rorschach test,
one patient said HEART, IT'S A HEART and
the other denied there was anything there at all.
it's gone.

what you said to me, again :
according to the doctor's note,
and the patient argumentation,
"it was me to blame of your HEART CANCER.
don't stop to hate me, because when you stop,
you will die, let the revenge lives your struggle.
and let the world share this note".

how i replied, finally :
according to your cynical and self-defense sentences
"i will. but you just poisoning my blood.
and it effects my HEART CANCER.
it was you i can denied, and when i denied,
i breathless, i just want to keep breath to remain you".

this weaker years,
i just stare to the deepest hollow
and it's been a hundred years after
and thirty years after you, men, died.
but i keep denied to breathless
and the HEART CANCER,
just keep grow and grow, but never been worst at all.

***

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