By Jack LaVigne

The doctor did damage
Beyond the necessary reparations:
Ankle joints and
Bones were reset, 
Birds removed from lungs.
He added pockets of blood to burst
Spatial rearrangements, 
Sold my liver in slices.

Now when I lift my hands
My brain explodes. 
I taste the rain two cities off,
And feel the mouse toes cross my floor.
The seatbelt clicks and
My stomach collapses up into my chest.
The phone buzzes and
The vibrations shatter my teeth.
Pins and needles prick my ears,
My feet blistered then became marble

I travel everywhere in a chariot of pink and green
Thirteen young men pulling and pushing
Up and down hills.

I am wrapped in silk,
I suck on a tube for air.
Water slips through a needle in my neck.
Hot packs keep me warm,
Industrial fans keep me cool.
I am constantly in a feverish state
So I do not recall the time of day.
The sunlight bends to my warped eyes,
A tapestry of nonsense
Smashing into every pore.
I move across the land
And when I come to someplace new
I stick my pinky out into the air
To capture all I need to see and feel and hear
Then the pinky is withdrawn,
And we move on.