Monkey Gone Wrong

January 21, 2007

No-there is too much pain,
can’t you see it?
beating in my back like a

pack of wild monkeys
dying of tuberculosis
in a jungle of twisted silk.

I’ve got burning
and who knew that
things could be hurt in

so many strange and
varied ways.
This is like a metaphor

for sliding through the squares of
open days; eating sunlight
in great cubes of darkness,

as stars drifts bleakly
this is a white ventricle
turning red.

My water is broken.
So I’m gulping
canasta after canasta of

clear white fluid,
falling out of faucets in
roughed up movement

fluoride rich and cold and
slipping into raw pink piping,
making it clean.

I can visualize
the juices of artichokes,
medicated saline,

the sluice gates at
canals, the run off
at drains.

But this water is hard
to keep on pushing,
and its progress slows

like fading light.
The jungle is growing
and the monkeys are moaning.

Their round mouthed screams
are muffled, like flowers
in grass.

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