amphibi.us

looking at a woman condemned in the hospital bed
my mother is a fragile carcass of bones and skin
like distressed leather
i try to see the dignity of having lived her life her own way
smoking herself into the hole
there is still pride in those eyes
fear and pain as well
i don’t think dignity gets to play here at the end

looking at a woman condemned
i listen to the minutia
the details that now construct her present
a tray of food with sub-par sustenance
a night nurse who withholds pain medication
a young surgeon who probably drives a Mercedes
obtuse patterns on the carpet
mis-matched curtains
sanitized courteous patronizing smiles

when your mother is dying before you
(when anyone is)
there is nothing left to weave for anybody
what you know is lucid and true: you are looking at a condemned soul
what you do is bide your time
her time
by examining the simple details
through a magnifying glass
and the next day when you come to visit
and you see the wreath the hospital has placed on her door
you know that probably nothing will have changed
outside the building
the trash is still being picked up on Tuesdays
the team of RNs is still out back smoking stogeys
people are getting mugged shat upon cut down by cars
nothing will have changed
outside her room

© Alex M. Pruteanu, 2010

[others]

i thought i’d drink to
the pros and cons of alcohol
but mostly the cons
and while i’m at it
here’s to me looking all tired and drawn
outside in the waiting room
just like you said
and here’s to all the other hostages of death
i sat with older than the National Geographics
we flicked through
and why not
here’s to my brand new sneakers
a dollar a week to keep out the rain
and before i forget
here’s to the quality
or lack thereof of this my one and only life
watching you count out ‘the good’
across a delicate, manicured hand
(and still you held your pen
my how we laughed !)
and here’s to abstinence
and ‘curious observing’
now chain smoking alone and opening one more
and here’s to Buk
and ten thousand suicides every night
each day a new beginning
and here’s to Richard Yates
disturbing the peace
or Hans Fallada and Robert Walser
and here’s to name dropping writers
after all reading was one of my only pleasures
and here’s to the ‘Beast’ or the Void
within, without and waiting
and here’s to Schopenhauer
and the interest we all pay Death in sleep
and here’s to affliction and pain
an expiation for the crime of birth
and yea
here’s to fucking psychs like you
with your latest empirical theories
and comfortable practice
and finally
here’s to why i rarely make it
past the third or fourth session
wasting at least three good drunks
for an hour of platitudes and mind games
non judgemental of course
anyway here’s to the drink
and the dumb, brute will to go on
i hear my children laughing
thirty miles ago

© Paul Harrison, 2010

[others]

tired of the planet
my finger falls asleep
on a hair-trigger

a bullet rolls down
the barrel and crashes
thru my brain cells
like bowling pins

my head snaps back
and the revolver drops

the last thing
i see is an empty
white ceiling

radiant as a
neutron star

© Steve Calamars, 2010

[others]

At the grave-site we sit and wait, five of us, his family and friends. It is
sunny but cool. The flag droops at half-staff. Far away, snatches of a
meadow lark’s trill flutter over the hum of traffic.

The hearse rolls to a stop. The driver gets out, opens the rear door and
releases the coffin. He stands to one side, his right hand over his heart.
The coffin, draped with a burial flag, contains the shredded flesh that once
was Bubba, most recently known as Private William Richard T—.

Sergeant (1), Casket Team (6). Dress blues, sharp creases, white gloves.
Attention!

Firing Party (5). Present Arms!

Casket bearers march to grave. Stand to Attention facing casket. Lift flag.
Hold waist-high over casket. Chaplain (Captain), kind face, graying hair,
holds Big Book open in left hand. Speaks in soft bass voice. Benediction.

Chaplain and Sergeant. Attention! Hold salute.

Firing Party. Attention! Ready! Aim! Fire! Volleys (3). Present Arms!

Bugler (1), away off to the left. Taps. Crisp. Clear. Piercing.

The last note hangs, fades like a moan, a sigh becoming air.

Casket soldiers fold flag lengthwise. Snap. Snap. In timed sequence, fold in
triangles. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Sergeant takes flag, perfect triangle.
Hands it to Chaplain, who goes to seated older woman. Presents flag to her.
Pronounces, “On behalf of a grateful Nation.” Salutes. Departs.

I stand away over here and remember Bubba, about to assume his very own
space in the rows of gleaming white markers on this manicured grass, a whole
army of markers in perfect lines and intersecting columns, all the way down
to there and up the hill, fixed in eternal Attention on that Final Parade
Square.

Bubba. I remember him well—a noisy, messy, dirty, loud-mouthed slob, who
lied, cheated, stole from his own family, who owed everyone money, who
slept, puked, pissed in his clothes, all the time hollering how unfair the
world was.

Hey, Bubba, who would’ve believed the Army could transform you—to come home
so neat and quiet.

© O. Talpash, 2010

Children float on foam beds
like blue raft boats and soft

big rubber bands placed by
boy by girl.

Towers of red towers over
sea foam, sand foam, foam

of which they take on pages
machines and playthings

and used glass or fibers, or
little children and vinyl straps

and bells check-in on sheets.
Icing all over their

fingers from
mother’s fixed

frostings coat mixers like the
cat loves its aluminum.

© Megh Wright, 2010

[others]