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SWEET Dave Morrison Camden, Maine |
Sweet When I got older I came into some money – it was not something that I expected – it didn't really matter, but, there it was. I didn't need anything at that point – I got it into my head that I would use the money for a cranial autopsy. This didn't sit well with some people, who argued that I could give it to charity, or give it to them, but by then I had learned to live without other people's approval. I don't know what I expected, it's not like I'd learn anything – I'd be on to the next thing. Anyway. I'd made up my mind. And so, one day I went. Not in my sleep, like I'd hoped, but in the late morning, while reading a book, which, believe it or not, was fine too. First, my scalp was drawn back like a blanket on a bed, then the comical little buzz saw. The medical examiner was doing the work, the student watching, preparing to see, for the first time, the grey cauliflower that had once made me who I was. God DAMN. The student tried to be alert, not knowing what to expect. The medical examiner's face was grimaced in shock. The bees moved slowly, like sleepy children, not used to the air and the light. One, maybe the one who wrote the odd poems, took off and flew in erratic circles around the fluorescent lights. Then another. The doctor hurried to a phone on the opposite wall, and the student absently dipped in a finger and touched it to his tongue. I wish I'd been there to see that. Dave Morrison [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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