In my disease I find
Nothing ever gave me this energy
Nothing ever was released like this.
She said others fed on it and I should too
That energy that was hidden in the deepest of pockets inside arteries
What never showed up in those thin blue veins of yours and of mine
From those pineapple slices that were processed and slumped and tumbled into tin cans
And those those those those monster cookies that really only represented peanut butter farms
Such you can find in these pockets.
Such you can find in my garbage now.
We stood in the fitting room and decided on translucency
Mine across my shoulder, yours across your chest.
When I was a real child, I stretched my arm out before the retractable mirror and hated it
I thought it was masculine, these veins of mine
I recall wondering what I had done to deserve the translucency
And I started hating
Hate for all the questions answered
Hate for all the words unknown
Hate for all inappropriate remarks in regards to those hateful questions and more hate dissolving in those very veins
Long apart from where they were supposed to be
They settled for long, for years, for tears but to my great non-chagrin
Never for fears
My veins are the most precious of organs
I love the blood as it spills, admire it for bottling my bottles
When the wound heals itself
And when the blue worms penetrate my winter-wrinkly hands in this terrific Pacific Sun.