Tuesday, April 29, 2008


tibial plateau fracture
a grudge to grind
we sculpted the bouquet, after the fire, with dhoop
and sandlewood.
did the krishna radha soapstone sculpture save us,
or is that where the fire started?
under the fertility charm julia, pregnant, passed on to me.


Woodhull hospital a very long dramatic 1-act play in which nothing happens, blood on the loading dock, a man in 3 pairs of pants, a hidden bottle of olive oil, tied to his stretcher, EMT: "ok, we'll call you Mr. Fuck You Bitch, last name Mr. Fuck You Bitch." First name? Mustafa. "Why does he have 2 IDs? Learning how to fly a plane?"-- EMT.
Everyone tells stories of what happened to them in low voices, how they got there (except the ones who are puking or shouting), in low, dispassionate tones, as if talking about someone else. A kind of muffled compliance, the unrecognition of this life as one's own. The yellow and black boots of the ambulance drivers. The low-high tones and island lilt of the doctors and nurses, bits of gauze on the floor, the yellow toenails of the man on the stretcher next to mine, after they had hosed him off in the bathroom. You could hear him hollering from down the hall. Homeboys wander through with their abrasions, their puncture wounds. A man with two swollen black eyes, a young Latino man, no English, thumb wrapped huge in bloody gauze.


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