The Patient

I am patient. That is my mineral fact.

         I have long term storage in double helixes

my two long polymers of nucleotides

         my backbone made of sugars and phosphate groups

joined by ester bonds. I see imagist pears dissolving down

golden arms I hear needle-less the sleep aid cd's

         real violins, then float blue-black

at the eventide, injure

         of the taut to and fro, cut-back

asphalt road, a path of greening twigs nourishing

nothing personal. Root stocks

         of the best grapes, balm

for the honeybee's bite, lyme's flea—

         money chimes in the community bowl,

with patience I can sit on this bench

and wait for the ironworks of a previous century

         to reverse themselves, or I can lie in the grass,

vision the airplane's scatter-lit

         hallway, the descent

only a little shaky

             like the trouble between art and life rolling you out

into an unpainted landscape,

the unbelted intoxication of travel    unstable as a chemical's twisted briar

medicine or drug    licit or illicit

                or afterimage

                time to move along

it's pathos time

        dodge a supreme fear

pathos—

                                        Patience was crowding anxiety

                              Patience's tired tongue was breaking a bone,

                                   while the twin and drone

                           to be patient with

hovered over

our uncharted, rimless wants,

rictus a slit vowel—

                                  La vida,

                                  a mess of dominoes

                                  face down.

I am a pilot light

                                 desiring more recognition,

                                 I suck grass

                                 to the dead inside.

The sleep aid cd & Hippocratic oath     mixed up good

in the cocktail of my head    spoken into like commerce's cavity,

cavity or skylight    opening to the early spring blossoms

in the airless baggage claim

                                       SANCHEZ in stencil font

                                       stitched to my desert fatigues

holding luggage    looking for someone to pick me up

I can be both

life-charged and dead

in consecutive units,

exited to like

turnpike rest stop's    promisingly lit

pagoda, a respite    for the humans stopping and returning,

            the humans predicating,

a human is someone

who has wandered in from the desert.

I am patience in a substance clothed.

truly a creepy troll

truly a creepy troll

a human is the one

continuing to close

Christ's eyes

on the great crucifixes

wagering will there    now be some inevitable progress.     In a tone pour,

the erotics of the electronics    swelling the house

and trailing to the sidewalk,

        skip to sound

a harrowing to go, a darned patch

A soft fontanel

a warm harm

a human

         does nothing

unusual, forgetting the euphoria

of human potential

is human potential

wanting more tools to form the mind. Rest, stop, a human is go

stopping and returning,

a practice    a human is someone

to pick you up

a human is someone to hone

in a human's

long-held desire to vanish in a crowd or x-ed

out void of others,

in mass human's estranging light.