Cancer moves like a haze of hate, and covers the eyes of mystified god worshipers tied up in boats expecting to go to heaven – each singing Kum Ba Yah. But the heart magic that once accompanied this tune has already traded place with so much invective about others that these boats are already turning towards a beach near Hell.
A doctor wearing glasses checks a wrist for signs of a previous life – for any sign of the way it was. But time has already passed – there is no way that it was – only today – machines promising to define rhythms of heart beats and promising to call loved ones moments before someone dies.
Death and all meanings about “here afters” are meaningless and inconvenient to families interrupted by medical miracles that may or may not happen – life and death experimentations – “cut me, make me a pin cushion, tell me I’ll have a few more days to put my affairs together” – give me better expectations to hang like a noose from”.
By the bed, little children squirm, and adults read bibles, flowers melt on tables – sounds and nurses rounds – another patient moaning in the bed next to yours – and you ask “how do I feel so alone surrounded by so much sound – it is a pity some one doesn’t come and say something meaningful”.
What happen to my life, every single memory? Wasn’t I once 5, didn’t I have friends – didn’t we go to the river to swim – there was color then, wasn’t there – what happen to that color – the painting of an angel hanging in a church vestibule – I prayed like a good boy didn’t I?
There was a girl, she was 5 too – she wore a very pretty dress and then I heard some laughter. I wish I could remember who was laughing – was it a Grandmother – was it a brother, was it me? My ears are full of cancer; I wish I could hear something other than a drum pounded by an ancestor.
Bang me Father, trash me like a mistake. I am your prodigal; don’t force me to return home 68 years later to ask forgiveness – for leaving, and in fact never returning. I was, and I am, the son who is going to die in a hospital bed listening to my families’ drums. Ghoul face night skulls waking me, saying California is not your home we are taking you alive or dead back to a NY slum…