Radical Surgery
Uncle Sam blows a hole in the chest
of Iraq to kill cancer cells
instead of simple radiation,
drunk on patriot juice, waving his rifle
he applies shaving wounds
toilet paper dabs with an artery burst
gushing blood like wildcat oil veins
on the walls, across eyelashes,
beneath the shoes, poured
like concrete molds
into the subconscious;
an underworld of parasites
raining rouge and profiteers.
The patient explodes upon the table.
Car bombs go off in the abdomen,
snipers fire at blood clots,
every sect sets foot
to fight for space
in the sudden Twister game,
where the space is going
quickly.
He spackles up the arm pits
and wraps the forehead
while blood continues pouring out;
tapped at the Oktoberfest,
carried out by men of principles
questionable but for their enormous arms
which carried enormous jugs
of blood to drink in celebration
"There's plenty of blood to go around!"
The donors line up with contracts
and in the hot sun, filled with flies
and sandpaper, enlist themselves
for another stab at surgery,
for the wounded beyond recognition
and the history still repeating
at the dinner table, take two aspirin
and call me in the morning
for the cure for indigestion.
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