There and Neck Again (in 9 Poems)

To my dear wife Katya, who lived through more of this than myself. To Dr. Rogers, who technicality beheaded me twice. To Dr. Candiotti, who made this as easy as a walk in a park. To M. Xavier Niel, who has the biggest heart in Paris. To M. Paul du Rove, who has been a friend in need so many times.

To the rest of you, who definitely need motivation to improve your working environments (at least get a laptop stand and never work from a couch). TLDR here.

/ 1. Joke's on us /

I don't have faith.

I couldn't ask the

God residing

in this mosque

to take away

the pain in my

poor neck — or

even lose it

for the time

it takes to say

a prayer.

Oh, the joys

of all our science

and our senses.

/ 2. Next! /

Stepping up to a

urinal in a busy

restroom, I couldn't

help but think

about those army

brothels and their

over-worked

attendants I have

read about in

books. How dare I

think of hell, when

nobody had fucked

me in such stalls.

(That said, pinched-

nerve pain

isn't pretty either.)

/ 3. Patient Mantras /

a.

My weight and height

are measurements

for clothes — not dosage.

b.

Sleep has no use or value —

unless you're likely to wake up.

c. 

No moment is horrible

when not ahead

of the next.

d.

Breathe down the back

of your throat —

and you're hearing

the Ocean inside you.

/ 4. Trojan* Gifts /

All hail the poppy!

I have always

held its flowers

in great esteem —

and now its seeds

are giving back,

replanting hope

where pain

had seemed

to have the ground

burnt out and salted.

Its prescription

haze of healing

bathes my days

in quiet sunshine,

as my body's readied

for repairs.

* — Danaan, actually, but I figured your life is difficult enough as it is.

/ 5. Tramadol /

The nurses ask me:

what is that you're 

taking, and draw back

with "oh, the heavy

stuff". It's actually

second-last as heavy

goes; still, quite the

bitch when it is time

to climb off.

/ 6. The third bell /

Prepare to hand in

5 to 10 percent of

your head's movement

in exchange for

getting rid of all the

pain that lying down

has been for these

past months; of

tramadol and its

prescription mercies;

of the magic two positions

somewhat good for

sleeping. We will be

keeping you for two

nights, just in case.

- What was that "neural

degradation" listed

as a risk? - Oh, this

we put in place of

"quadriplegic".

/ 7. Leaving the Hospital /

It's February. Paris

isn't smiling yet,

my love refuses

wearing her red

beret. Some

raindrops dot my

windows: punctured

lines. A tree stands

still — held tight by vines —

still holding on

to last year's leaves,

unlike the pine next 

door, unchanging, dark;

hard to believe this

park would ever green

again, but so it will —

and me, I won't be sorry

to have missed this.

/ 8. Exit through the gift shop /

And only when

I took the plunge

away from opiates,

was it that I could

pray, at long last,

in the utter misery

of night, withdrawal,

cold and sweat:

forget about communion

with God, until your soul

is naked — won't

convince yourself

you meant what

you had said.

/ 9. Le Roi is fixed... /

Then this: the tempests

of your hormones calmed,

a careful peace — not

ceasefire! — with the meds.

Your head sits higher

by a couple millimeters,

two of your disks replaced

with cages of titanium,

both filled with artificial bone.

No pain.

A cut across your neck

is scheduled for removal

of its stitches and your new

spine for X-ray, a checkup —

then, you're back upon

the board.

As if the four months

never happened, save

that you are now a bit of

cyborg, if without the

useful mods (subdermal

armor, blades in wrists,

"I never asked for this",

you know the drill).

What will you do

with this new life,

in fact, your old one?

What do people do —

when they're not

taking pills?