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Literature Text
Breathe...
...this is the sound of what you think can't kill you.
With a shiv in the ribs and a shift in the lips
the patients shushedly loiter in seats in the lobby
inside of the department of radiology department
resting, washed out and owning it, bandana-ed up
or balding inwardly and outwardly, taking breaths
because they know firsthand that lung cancer kills
in white-collars or in navy-shirts—indiscriminately,
determinedly.
There are lung cancer patients plagued radioactive,
taking breaths, donating their bodies to a science
without a serum to show for it, their sterner sternum
schlit open with a scent that was ribcaged from inside.
Within, a cancer not there for a cure-all, but for an end-all
last gasp, escapes from the belly of the bestiary scrivened
on ribs in scrimshaw, glazed in formaldehyde preservative.
If you color me cadaver and call me an honorary coroner
or scribble me soldier and salute me as your surgeon
on the front lines performing vivisection polyp by polyp,
I'd still tell you in the space of a year a woman I talk to
on a basis of regularity lost an aunt, two uncles in battle.
She reminds me, seriously, fuck cancer
and taking breaths...
...because this is the sound of what you think can't kill you.
Let's be real, be upfront when pitted with limps
and lymphs in your limbs. You're untouchable.
Lung cancer doesn't get you, that illness is tobacco.
Please, smell the flowers and flechette and we can still
separate the flak from the flora and be able to admit
you can be out of breath before you're out of time:
time out; out burning; burning glory; glory hallelujah;
hallelujah clap; clap palms; palms face; face tsk; tsk lips;
lips gasp; gasp gospel; gospel book; book ends; ends first.
First ends; ends book; book gospel; gospel gasp; gasp lips
lips tsk; tsk face; face palms; palms clap; clap hallelujah;
hallelujah glory; glory burning; burning out; out of time.
Timeout.
Out of breath.
Day in the life of....
The terms of service of the time of death are in effect:
you can’t take a breath that isn’t secondhand person;
can’t take a breath that wasn’t a contact hello;
can't take a breath that hasn’t been a laugh;
can't take a breath and scream...
...because that is the sound of what you don’t want still in you.
I see it on posters outside the radiology ward:
re-warded on information leading to capture;
wanted for cure: you.
...this is the sound of what you think can't kill you.
With a shiv in the ribs and a shift in the lips
the patients shushedly loiter in seats in the lobby
inside of the department of radiology department
resting, washed out and owning it, bandana-ed up
or balding inwardly and outwardly, taking breaths
because they know firsthand that lung cancer kills
in white-collars or in navy-shirts—indiscriminately,
determinedly.
There are lung cancer patients plagued radioactive,
taking breaths, donating their bodies to a science
without a serum to show for it, their sterner sternum
schlit open with a scent that was ribcaged from inside.
Within, a cancer not there for a cure-all, but for an end-all
last gasp, escapes from the belly of the bestiary scrivened
on ribs in scrimshaw, glazed in formaldehyde preservative.
If you color me cadaver and call me an honorary coroner
or scribble me soldier and salute me as your surgeon
on the front lines performing vivisection polyp by polyp,
I'd still tell you in the space of a year a woman I talk to
on a basis of regularity lost an aunt, two uncles in battle.
She reminds me, seriously, fuck cancer
and taking breaths...
...because this is the sound of what you think can't kill you.
Let's be real, be upfront when pitted with limps
and lymphs in your limbs. You're untouchable.
Lung cancer doesn't get you, that illness is tobacco.
Please, smell the flowers and flechette and we can still
separate the flak from the flora and be able to admit
you can be out of breath before you're out of time:
time out; out burning; burning glory; glory hallelujah;
hallelujah clap; clap palms; palms face; face tsk; tsk lips;
lips gasp; gasp gospel; gospel book; book ends; ends first.
First ends; ends book; book gospel; gospel gasp; gasp lips
lips tsk; tsk face; face palms; palms clap; clap hallelujah;
hallelujah glory; glory burning; burning out; out of time.
Timeout.
Out of breath.
Day in the life of....
The terms of service of the time of death are in effect:
you can’t take a breath that isn’t secondhand person;
can’t take a breath that wasn’t a contact hello;
can't take a breath that hasn’t been a laugh;
can't take a breath and scream...
...because that is the sound of what you don’t want still in you.
I see it on posters outside the radiology ward:
re-warded on information leading to capture;
wanted for cure: you.
Literature
letters on leaving.
i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
and i was never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why.
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
but i'm finally learning a different kind of bravery-
the kind it takes to
stay.
stay.
i learned to wear death
like rope burn my junior year
my senior year we became friends
but i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrist
Literature
God's lungs
i learned how to board an airplane when i was eight years old.
Spongebob-hologram backpack and fitted pink baseball cap,
i was on my way to Disney World when they taught me that
your ears pop because the air is less dense way up there.
i broke into the cockpit and asked the pilot
“how does God breathe?”
and he let me sit on his lap for a whole two hours, told me
“look for his lungs wedged between the clouds.”
i can’t say i found them but ever since then,
i’ve spent mild Spring days and airplane rides
searching for an existence i know isn’t.
i jumped out of the last airplane i was on.
they
Literature
the cancer's taking over but i'm not sick
crustacean,
claw your way through
the moon; amsterdam
will call you home,
you will not profess
your love to it ya que
no se preocupa por ti.
your lungs are greenhouses,
cigarettes from second-hand
smoke victims' corpses:
i
f o u n d
m y s e l f
i n
a
m o r g u e ;
w h i l e
d i g g i n g
a
g r a v e
f o r
y o u ,
i
f e l l
s i x
f e e t
d e e p
a n d
f e l t
t h e
w h o l e
w d
o l
r
c o l l a p s e
i
n
on itself,
i cried in the shower months
ago, wasting oceans and
singing catastrophes to make
up for the loss of a hurricane's
life's work;
(we have always been so
sensi
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Dedicated to Camu Tao.
Wow. Where do I start with this one? It has been quite the experience putting the thoughts into words and further revising them, but I finally reached the end after many sleepless nights right up until Thanksgiving morning itself. Maybe now isn't the best time to put an idea like this forth, maybe the sooner the better. All I know, is I'm currently practicing the PERFORMANCE of this piece. It's been too long since I specifically wrote something for slam, and reading what are parts of the poem, it's very obvious the enunciation and emotion is missing behind the wordplay. I plan to deliver that to your ears soon.
This poem is for LadyLincoln and LungCancer-Awareness' project: Lung Cancer Awareness: Finding Your Courage.
There are a LOT of references, wordplay, and other elements at work in this poem. See how many you can find. See how many you appreciate. For example: "department of radiology department" is a reference to the idiom, "department of redundancy department."
The first part of the poem is meant to illustrate.
The second part of the poem is meant to rally.
I'll leave you to infer as to why the end is as abrupt as it is.
A few words to know:
A shiv, also known as a shank, is a makeshift sharp weapon. Later in the stanza I mention Scrimshaw, which is the art of carving bone, usually ribs and tusks of large mammals. Scrivening is what the artistic act of creating scrimshaw is called. Schlit is onomatopoeia. Trust me, you don't want to hear the sound of cracking a sternum open. Vivisection is the act of dissection while the patient is still alive, sometimes even still conscious. Flechette is a type of ammunition resembling a small dart, shot from a gun.
With thanks to SilverInkblot for guiding me in the right direction in the course of the poem, to Sammur-amat for letting me quote her, and LadyLincoln for making me remember how twisted cancer is. It killed a rapper I would later listen to. His girlfriend went on to become a psychologist. I still have a friend because of her.
Nic for cure.
Wow. Where do I start with this one? It has been quite the experience putting the thoughts into words and further revising them, but I finally reached the end after many sleepless nights right up until Thanksgiving morning itself. Maybe now isn't the best time to put an idea like this forth, maybe the sooner the better. All I know, is I'm currently practicing the PERFORMANCE of this piece. It's been too long since I specifically wrote something for slam, and reading what are parts of the poem, it's very obvious the enunciation and emotion is missing behind the wordplay. I plan to deliver that to your ears soon.
This poem is for LadyLincoln and LungCancer-Awareness' project: Lung Cancer Awareness: Finding Your Courage.
There are a LOT of references, wordplay, and other elements at work in this poem. See how many you can find. See how many you appreciate. For example: "department of radiology department" is a reference to the idiom, "department of redundancy department."
The first part of the poem is meant to illustrate.
The second part of the poem is meant to rally.
I'll leave you to infer as to why the end is as abrupt as it is.
A few words to know:
A shiv, also known as a shank, is a makeshift sharp weapon. Later in the stanza I mention Scrimshaw, which is the art of carving bone, usually ribs and tusks of large mammals. Scrivening is what the artistic act of creating scrimshaw is called. Schlit is onomatopoeia. Trust me, you don't want to hear the sound of cracking a sternum open. Vivisection is the act of dissection while the patient is still alive, sometimes even still conscious. Flechette is a type of ammunition resembling a small dart, shot from a gun.
With thanks to SilverInkblot for guiding me in the right direction in the course of the poem, to Sammur-amat for letting me quote her, and LadyLincoln for making me remember how twisted cancer is. It killed a rapper I would later listen to. His girlfriend went on to become a psychologist. I still have a friend because of her.
Nic for cure.
Comments9
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The sound of what you think cant kill you... Indiscriminately, determinedly... Plagued radioactive (almost like plugged radio active)... Without a serum to show for it. Not there for a cure all, but an end all... seriously fuck cancer... you can be out of breath before you're out of time... you cant take a breath that isn't second hand (second hand smoking maybe)... cant take a breath that wasn't a contact (looks like contract)... re-warded
are my favorite lines
are my favorite lines