Perfect Rest

Yr cancer is inevitable as love.

You didn't last forever. The pain

wasn't the main problem, unconsciousness

was. Dad cannot see or hear,

the walls of the house contain just dust,

that's it, and if he shows up as a ghost

I'm lost, all my theories false.

Dr. Cherry certified my cancer as a cyst.

A drupe, a stone, a past mistake.

I left the examining room elated,

and have gone on to conflate my happiness,

relief, with that of the whole village.

The message is: to the east and west, the self

which is carried around as a pound of garbage.

"I like to be kissed before I'm fucked."

And what is poetry anyway. Its role,

local and global. Well, I for one have no

friends or family sufficiently interested

to come to a reading. Don't take offense,

we prefer novels, and especially movies,

coffee, sugar, oil, parrots, ponies, you

name it. Seven goes to six. Prices

bust and burst, but life (and school) goes

on, or whatnot. Atomic bubble gum. Protein computer.

Grass roof. Sun spot. Perfect error.

In the mirror where everybody hides the body.

Finally, I have been going for walks, girls

with protection dogs, black flies in my eyes.

Peace of noon, bird siesta. August returns,

the snow flies. Did you survive summer,

beat the reaper? I hope so, and yr fern allies.

Perfect rest is priceless, paradise.