C_llin, since I feel like I shorted you on new material, I decided to post the 1st of the 4 AIDS poems I didn't read at Java last night, "Day Negative 7: Mother's Day."
16 May 2000. He is flying (or falling) – no – lying
to himself. Death traps his breath in a lode-
stone BOX (N.) -->
corner: a predicament from which
graceful escape is impossible
Who owns the air? the voice asks. Who,
the Earth? He
fights God with eight
translucent arms. The thick yellow fog
is boiling. Boils
for eyes. Swirling black columns
of smoke rise like stilts as he walks
Who owns the flowers? When he climbs
into the coffin, Venus
flytraps of lightning
open: knock-knock. All bone. Who owns
the sea? Can you? Another black O
on his thigh. A pair, a MOON (N.) -->
a small body in orbit about a planet
(I am coming back.)
K.S., night sweats, an opera
of coughing. A coffin. Too short. Pulse?
Pulse? One hundred
thousand black ants scurry
through the artery. No
escape. Who owns this
over Miami. Hands
in every crevice. Breath.
Stone. Mother. Who owns
light? Reach. No flowers but
(I am coming back soon.)
LUST (N.) -->
one of the seven deadly
Future. Face it. A bouquet
of injections. ER.
Your status, sir, your status?