Seeking out the darkness
of diseased tissue in a landscape of peridot bracken behind
a quarter-ton door, green is black curled into itself, a pathology
of subcutaneous growth pitted against its victim's
the loneliness of this nightmare region, an aporia too strong for physicians to prescribe.
Vesalius' skilled fingers could
only perform a macabre dance: moist palms pressing against hips,
knees raised up to flatten back, eyes gazing into an eternity
of faceless machinery, ears licked by a bane
of laughter burning swollen veins radiating crabs' legs in warm saliva
boiling off copper cauldrons, a grid
of phased electrons stepped up to blocks of Lipowitz metal,
bombarded through a window of neutral vulnerability...
slowed to X-rays bleaching
sea-green air in line of sight of an aquaplast
mask, targeting the next "surgical strike."
St. Peregrine loved his god he
rose from the ashes with his whole
being, as if apostate cells metastasize into Quetzalcoatl's
waxing and waning.