Monday, February 1, 2016

Mark Sargent


He came in a long tube
I picked up at the PO and took
immediately to my frame guy.
He stretched it snug
and up he went.

He’s on the wall behind me
looming, bigger than fucking life
and looming, looking over me
right shoulder with what might
have been a blur of sneer but was
smudged into bafflement and sad,
hurt, wary as though cornered.

How did it happen?
What got my ass to this chair in nowhere
being rendered into oil?

It could have been Reno
or some buggered LA suburb
but either way it wasn’t
far enough from New York.
Call them episodes, ‘cause it’s a series,
those fucking crimson spews,
gift transfusions from the common vein
and another guy in a lab coat
shaking his head and you know
all your lines in this scene
and play it sincere, subtle
with a gallows humor lean.

Well, so far, fatal bullets dodged
but he’s winged,
goes by Liverfool now,
has trouble selling his sass,
waiting, as he is,
for a liver on the rocks,
for some poor fucker who matches
to die, so they can medi-vac that organ 
to the hospital,
shove it in him
and see if it takes.

What will Nate whisper when my night
feels like a shrunken shirt,
voices tell me to break it all apart,
and I know that’s shit advice
but listen anyway, what will you say, Nate?
I suggest you scorn my suffering
as not enough, not enough,  point
to your scars, the deep shit,
paint your pain broadly,
bleed right off that canvas
the fluids of fate and choice.
Hey, wuz you deciding ever
or did you let your monkey choose?

It is always the worst of times
when you’re killing time
in the hard scrublands of organ failure,
not a kiosk in sight
and you’re floating
in a most peculiar way
and what was common place
is hard to find today.

And the best, consider those
transfusions of joy, those bungee falls
each plunge weakening the strand
the fiber the weave the setup:
a Rasta and a trust fund twit
enter a sperm bank clinic…
a giraffe dressed like a gangsta
and a sumo in a tutu are thrown
from a plane…

Make in the limit of now,
snap of it—traction, bounce—
hey, that cat’s still moving,
claws extended, fur electric,
that ain’t no bounce,
that fucker’s leaping.

It is a leap year.
Get some air
between you and earth.
Jump, muthafucka, jump
right over my shoulder
and on to the page.

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