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Cannonball Statman
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Rats and Reptiles
In seclusion,
Chaquina throws fecal matter
at a mirror;
and through one brave sliver of light shining into my room,
I see a grown woman of fourteen years scare the putrid life out of
a gang of armed guards,
flinging her legs and fists
across the universe.
Hey Doctor,
why are we on lockdown again?
There's no emergency on Ward 7 North;
only dreadful poison oxygen
and rage and religion
and nightmare television
and poser cronyism.
Hey Doctor,
take me fishing;
I want to lick hieroglyphic spit formations around
your rotator cuff,
as tomorrow's sushi machinery
breaks down slowly,
violently trashing over your syringe-worthy hands,
over the river, gasping, flailing
'till she utters her last flap,
her final offering to the cold universe,
her magnum opus;
surely she knew her last taste of this precious manic waltz
was delivered by the hands of a master clinician,
a great healer,
a true friend,
a profoundly sentient aristocrat of unfathomable virtue
who would kill to taste her flesh,
and even graciously allowed my pedestrian hands
to beat my guitar strings
in heretically clumsy syncopation
with the sealing of her fate.
Hey Doctor,
let's never do that
again.
What's up, Doc?
Your heart's been
racing
all week.
Hey Doctor,
do you ever see things that aren't there?
Do you ever feel so lonely
that you just want to
melt?
Do you wanna dance with somebody,
with somebody who loves you?
I can help with that.
Because in droves,
materializing from all directions,
trillions of lost souls in ailing vessels
made the mighty pilgrimage to this overpriced island
to see you,
Doctor;
with tumors and compulsions and convulsions, palpitations
and earthquakes and cancers and scurvy and pimples
and pneumonia and amnesia and lyme disease
and endlessly evolving paranoid fantasies,
suicidal heartthrobs, slain dissidents and slaves,
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freakish fetishists and pioneers of abstinence,
Motörhead and aliens and absinthe,
and the quietest man you've never heard
and Odyssean sirens and awkward blood transfusions,
a girl who lies habitually, but sits upright in bed
with boys and wounded vultures,
while Williamsburg transplants eat trash to save cash
and one-up the natives below the poverty line,
while stingy art professors sell propagandized adolescence
to cults of narcotized codependent students,
and some boys on Malcom X Boulevard dream of California,
as a lone Grandmaster Flash track cuts
through the midsummer rat piss power drill noisescape:
'IT'S LIKE A JUNGLE SOMETIMES,'
it's
like
death,
from the air,
under the door,
behind you,
behind your office.
Doctor!
He's dead;
he's whining
outside your office!
Doctor!
He's death;
he's waiting,
and
he brought
everybody,
everybody
he could take
everybody
he brought,
he brought
with him,
everybody
came!
Doctor!
They're waiting outside!
They all came to see
you!
(That's what you wanted, right?)
Hey Doctor,
I'm concerned!
Your blood pressure is alarmingly high today,
and your face is so pale!
I can see the imploding remnants of your fragile mutant ego,
falling through your legs and the floorboards into the sewer
around the cockroach colonies,
decomposing in a vicious airborne fetal devolution scum dance
before the eyes of rats and reptiles;
I can see your first and final teardrop,
sliding around your face
along the side of your nose.
That teardrop knows
it'll hit the floor without a sound,
its purpose served within a matter of seconds.
Hey Doctor,
the people will see you now.
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