23

organ donor

my words fuck me,
like embalming fluid
filling live tissue,
I am drowning
in vague images
of a single night
that has lasted
a lifetime.

Shit, Beano,
I cannot even
remember
the last time
I kissed a girl,
so this isn't
about a girl.

I have carved
so deep inside
my vital organs
I am now only
paper mache.

If I believed
in God or have the love
to fondle children,
I would be perfect for
monk-en-dom
or priesthood,

this is how
de-tatched
i have become.

It is no longer
a struggle to
fix the broken
or write a new,

It is now just
a waiting room,

so here i sit watching myself in the waiting room:

As he walked up to the ER's waiting room, the sliding glass doors did not open fast enough and he caught his reflection one last time. He cringed from the sight. Standing at the front desk, he quietly waited for his turn.

It was 12:30, A.M. The waiting room was full. He observed a middle-aged man who had fallen in his bathroom; the man held an ice pack to his head. An older man with his wife waited by the TV, both wore matching robes and kept wiping their noses with their sleeves. There was a young boy with his mother, obviously fever ridden and irritable. She read him The Velvetine Rabbit. A young man in his twenties waited in front of him--at the desk--and held an old tee shirt to his forehead. Stitches would be required to sew up a small gash over his right eye-brow, probably from a fist-fight. All this sickness, all this corrosion of body squeezed into a sterile-white room with blue chairs, yellow benches and metallic tables covered with two year old magazines. On the walls were framed pictures of flowers and families and seascapes showing promise of a better life. Yet like cattle in the line, before the slaughter, these ill people waited, patiently, for a cure that does not exist, in a place where no one talks. In this waiting room, people waited for their faith to stop the pain, to stop the bleeding. There was an old re-run of Happy Days on TV. Nobody watched.

It was his turn at the desk. The nurse, a heavy-set woman about 30, stinking of black coffee and cherry cough syrup, impatiently asked, "name and chief complaint?" She didn't bother to look up.

Pausing a moment, he quietly stated, Apathy.

The nurse looked up just in time to see him put the loaded revolver to his left temple and pull the trigger. Pieces of his brain quietly landed in her coffee mug. As the echo of the gun shot drilled through the quiet waiting room, Fonzie's patented ehhh! came spilling out from the TV. A trace of smoke could be seen from the exit wound and his eyes remained open.

by WjB

william knows who you are, but doesn't care.
william is only committed to kill poet press.
he loves his KP partner jsyn and his dog tobey.
and when he's not thinking of kill poet press,
or lestat's west, chances are,
he's still not thinking of you.