Tuesday, May 14, 2013


I'm sitting.
All around me noise floods and wanes  -
transient beeping, furious steps,
a woman shouting:
"Mark Schaefer!"
- - -
(proffered patent pause, a pendulum)
- - -
"Mark Schaefer?" 
- - -
And surely Mark is shitting,
though no one speaks up,
and I'm inside a cuckoo clock,

"Hrm-hm, I had to zoom in, but it's there," she says,
tracing that slender meat-pointer, a magic wand,
over the black canvas where a bleached specter has risen;
the skeletal projection of my right hand -
where tiny webs of darkness crept,
O shattered limb of mine.

"Is it a boxer's fracture?"
I ask half-hopeful, still boyish in my twenties
(Still twenties in my boyhood);
"No," a cool reply.
"This is common though."
I feel common.

Bandaged and bound,
drafted battalions of bone-blasted fools;
and I the general,
the wrist-wrap blue banner marks me,
leading left-handed legionnaires
into glorious ambidexterity.

"Suzanne Markowitz,"

- a beep - a cough -

"Suzanne Markowitz?"

and the cock dare not crow thrice
before another fallen lamb's to line:

"Jeremy Unger,"
"It's quite common, you're lucky really," she says.
I feel lucky.
"Jeremy Unger?"

Jeremy and I share a glance -
yes, that intimate shame,
and I know he's thinking..
I hope its a boxer's fracture.

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