“Generation Why” Excerpt: NY 10007

Postal code that
exploded like a lymph node,
cancer embedded in
the genetic code of ten
city blocks.

Chemotherapy
I drunkenly married like
a Vegas bride was
more pox than first
prognosis,

(probably the
closest to death I can
attest to).

From the moment I
met you,
seven forty seven
I assumed couldn’t blend
sky with structure,
you punctured
and twisted
like a knife in
the distance itching to
hear us scream.

And I swear to
fucking God if you ever
try to leave in
the night I’ll still
be sick without
the sympathy,
headcase whose lost
all written history of
illness,

while doctors try to kill it with the
villains they know.

But this monster I’ve
grown and
cultivated,
metastasised and
abated has
ultimately traded
survival for
semantics,

optimism for a phantom of hope.

This terminal ghost plays
nocturnal
games, leaving
Boardwalk’s ground zeroes
on each hero that ascertains there’s

still a rose in the
rubble.

Well, I’ve been digging
down
ward with wooden shovels
and all excavations
insofar
only rustle up
dead cells

and blood where someone
fell, hoping to tell someone
they
loved that eventually

all would be
well.

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