Is nothing I said as he plucked the blade from my skull
& stemmed the blood with his pants.
I do not… here &, how I’m
holed up now, fucked with too much,
I can’t say.
But I feel, I think, somewhat emotional.
Like I want to cry because I’m helpless, & there’s no –
no hope for me.
*
Later a doctor (of medicine) called it a miracle! A mill
either side & I’m vegetable more than man.
He had found the void between the east & western
hemispheres, the gap between the train & platform,
the nightmare at the end of the long, dark hall.
That last stanza is a nail in the head’s coffin. Yes, it’s always a fight we ‘should have won’ and we never do, not when we have the forces Dean mentions lined up against us. So briefly told, the thoughts like stab wounds from a short blade (we don’t die, just bleed onward)
true. thanks Peter
I think you won the fight, to produce this.
🙂 Thanks John!
again, as with much I read in your work, Mark, I sense the fallacies of ‘the self’, the repair, and exposure, to terror, self-criticism, the vast unknowingness forced upon us at birth…(all which could merely indicated what subjects preoccupy me!)
Thanks Dean. I’m super appreciative of your comment & glad to be in your company.