To my dear wife Katya, who lived through more of this than myself. To Dr. Rogers, who technicality beheaded me twice. To M. Paul du Rove, who has been a friend in need so many times.
And to the rest of you, who need motivation to improve your working environments: Get a laptop stand. Never work from a couch. Keep your phone at eye level like you're filming the horizon.
Or at least read these nine poems.
/ 1. Joke's on us /
I don't have faith.
I couldn't ask the God
residing in this mosque
to take away the pain
in my poor neck —
or even lose it for the time
it takes to say a prayer.
Oh, the joys
of all our science
and our senses.
/ 2. Next! /
Stepping up to a urinal
in a busy restroom,
I couldn't help but think
about those army brothels
and their attendants
I have read about in books.
How dare I think of hell,
when nobody had fucked me
in such stalls. (That said,
pinched-nerve pain
isn't pretty either.)
/ 3. Patient Mantras /
a.
My weight and height
are measurements for clothes —
not dosage.
b.
Sleep has no use or value —
unless you're likely to wake up.
c.
No moment is horrible
when not ahead
of the next.
d.
Breathe down the back of your throat —
and you're hearing the Ocean inside you.
/ 4. Trojan* Gifts /
All hail the poppy!
I have always held its flowers
in great esteem —
and now its seeds are giving back,
replanting hope where pain
has left the ground burned,
cracked and salted.
Its prescription haze of healing
bathes my days in quiet sunshine,
as my body's being readied for repairs.
* — Danaan, yes, but I figured life was difficult enough as it was.
/ 5. Tramadol /
The nurses ask me:
what is that you're taking —
and draw back with
"oh, the heavy stuff".
It's actually second-last
as heavy goes;
still, quite the bitch
when it is time
to climb off.
/ 6. The third bell /
Prepare to hand in 5 to 10
percent of your head's movement
in exchange for getting rid
of all the pain
that lying down has been
for these past months;
of tramadol and its
prescription mercies;
of the magic two positions
somewhat good for sleeping.
We will be keeping you
for two nights, just in case.
- What was that "neural degradation"
listed as a risk?
- Oh, this we put in place of
"quadriplegic".
/ 7. Leaving the Hospital /
It's February. Paris
isn't smiling yet,
my love refuses wearing
her red beret.
Some raindrops dot my windows:
punctured lines.
A tree stands still —
held tight by vines —
still holding on
to last year's leaves,
unlike the pine next door,
unchanging, dark;
hard to believe this park
would ever green again
but so it will — and me,
I won't be sorry
to have missed this.
/ 8. Exit through the gift shop /
And only when
I took the plunge away
from opiates,
was it that I could pray,
at long last,
in the utter misery
of night, withdrawal,
cold and sweat:
forget about communion with God,
until your soul is naked —
you won't convince yourself
you meant what you had said.
/ 9. Le Roi is fixed... /
Then this:
the tempests of your hormones
calmed, a careful peace —
not ceasefire! — with the meds.
Your head sits higher
by a couple millimeters,
two of your disks replaced
with cages of titanium,
both filled with artificial bone.
No pain.
A cut across your neck
is scheduled for removal
of its stitches and your new
spine for X-ray, a checkup —
then, you're back
upon the board.
As if the four months never happened,
except you're now a kind of cyborg
if without the useful mods
(subdermal armor, blades in wrists,
"I never asked for this",
you know the drill).
What will you do
with this new life —
in fact, your old one?
What do people do
when they're not
taking pills?
