when the only cure for what ails ya is what fails ya

I went for my metaphysical, the other day. Well, daylight saving though I didn’t have much interest in that, transposition or not from one place to another: the same grace. Said.

The sign read ‘The Doctor Is.’

I went, reminding myself to change that. I saw I came undressed except by notions of this and that: I did not want to Hegel. Okay?

The first patient left, my turn arrived on this portentous carnival ride. I heard the physician cry, ‘Nyet!’ in a tangle of languages where I had once anticipated arrival.

She pushed all my buttons, coughing a smile discreetly as I turned my head in riotous admiration as I left; righted, presenting prematurely the evidence for my denial, or invisibility among other artefacts.

Am I, I asked.

I rectum you’re fine now, she replied.

I knew then the ride was mine, but the circus was another atmosphere in its entirety. That if you take your hand and place it on me to steady yourself I still will not yell Yow, eh.

Be there, anyhow.

The physician’s rag is a flag of surrender, of sweet pink or sad brown: all mixed colors decide on the palette of pride, the deceit of renown.

Famed in your own mind, a non a mist or the precipitates of hyacinth hooves slashing the gravitational field gathering grace along the wide curves of an indistinguishable weight unmeasured by these hinges of eyesight louvering

each different and altered perspective, each word used out of expectation like carnivorous ghosts rippling heat across raised skin of the bodies in this bed of leaves

where night is a diurnal dust, garlands of

delivered semaphores and the entelechy of no trust betrayed, yet loved.

Dr. Dean, at your cervix, I replied.

©Dean Baker

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