Where we go from here?

Poem

I shook from your words,

splayed out in calculus advanced,

where I leaned back and stared at the white ceiling with your

stethoscopes all protruding.

Do not tell me where I am,

I smell the torpor held at bay

with which you will anesthetize me on that cold

summers day.

tell me once, tell me twice, is Dante fact or fiction?

See the nurses come and go,

waiting still by Michelangelo.

Delicate the sentence due rumble in the freezing December night,

where the old and ancient Christmas has bled out

from tonight’s escapade of thuggary for a purse without a name.

watch the word so precious cost a life once held so dear,

and stay still as the beating bleeding bending heart wastes its last galumph.

in the IR, their is such celebration

for the consternation

of a dying child

who wants wanted to grow but now is fading dark.

watch the crowd of contenders push for empty space,

to have their plea decided by the doctors callous embrace.

tell me once, tell me twice, is Dante fact or fiction?

and if he is painted by Michelangelo, does Dante become

substanceless

by Fresco al la Bresco?

Now let me expire on this slab of preternatural formica silicon

and tell me once, tell me twice, is Dante fact or fiction?