Long Live Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy
(for Terry Shiavo)
Amber nefers harass a milkweed throat
and choke tomorrow’s Alexandria—AHAs, UVAs,
SUVs, and lip-gloss. A mind sarcophagused in cellophane, spliced
like the plane of time.
Coral reef—a private bed—a private sanatorium,
smells of oysters and honey.
The Ramones scream, “I wanna be sedated.” Eighteenth
I wrote this work when I wasnt producing much else . I wrote it for me at a difficult time.
Fast forward one full year. I am putting together this FRiGG submission; Terri Shiavo is dying. At that time, I hear how blissful death by dehydration is supposed to be. But I am haunted by a news magazines report, a year previous, on illegal immigrants trying to cross from Mexico to America: in that desert between dreams, borders, and freedom, many die. I read the work over, realizing my words could be Terris. I want to give her my words.
Present time: I hear FRiGG will be going live as Im under the flu, under quite a bit of dehydrating. Four days on water and nothing else is not a nice experience, certainly not blissful. My thoughts, again, have turned to Terri. And I wonder.
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