WHEN YOU ARRIVE AT THE SHORE, GET OFF THE VEHICLE


Deborah Wood

The pasta is al dente.  There is an inherent paradox in this.  Forget that and discard the fibers, because it’s Thursday morning again.  Why don’t you whisk together the minutes you can no longer tell apart.  The safety coffin, you can ring the bell to signal breath.  Whisk together the small reddish brown seeds of grains of paradise. Cells continue to divide unfaithfully hidden by expensive astringents and lotions and makeup and skin.  A candle will be held to the mouth.  Resuscitation will be attempted by stimulating various parts of the body with juices of onions, garlic, and horse-radish, whips and nettles.  Excessive noise.  Neighbors.  Toast two tablespoons white while handling objects that haven’t been touched for so long.  Dust to dust.  Simulation.  Objects—yours and mine.  Ours.  The invention of the stethoscope in 1819 removed the need from these extreme measures.  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.  This is my message in a bottle.  Unable to see through the myth of status, possessions, and unlimited consumption.  You should walk the dog.  No time, no time, no time.  Greedy for the past.  There are no reflex functions associated with coughing, gagging, eye movement, blinking, or dilation with the pupils.  Greedy for the past.  You should pretend to forget to return that phone call.  But, the cells of the body could be kept alive.  You should add the fabric softener.  During the previous test the carbon dioxide level of the blood has risen above the point at which breathing is normally stimulated.  Proof.  The spotted gum rubbing against your naked feet, its oils poisonous for protection.  Cats in the wild.  Rubbing against the wood.  You will rub against me.  But sutured by time.  Intervals.  Inserting dyes.  The recycling of materials.  And if you are a connoisseur of you, then me, well then write and follow this prescription.  Permanent & irreversible.  Loss of cognitive function.  Death of the cerebral cortex.  The ice harvest in my freezer.  The doorbell is so scary ringing.  A flat electroencephalogram, indicating an absence of brain activity is often used for verification.  The unknown on the other side of that ridged glass, smoked, invading your suburban home.  Your guilt immediately shows and your cells continue to grow and divide unfaithfully.  Your citadel on fire.  Flat line.  Burnt to the ground.  Dust to dust.  Your dust, ashes.  Some comatose patients can recover.  You will expect this diving response.  Diving response as porn shot.  The tongue populous, a pomegranate, errant and bursting.  Your angle is great.  An asymmetry between life and death.  Evidence of irreversibility.  With only trash day as your way of counting, of keeping time.  You scoop the kitty litter sandbox, collect the week’s compostables.  Finally.  Cut down each box with the box-cutter, then what?  Thursday morning.  Greedy for the past.  While mimicking the future.  The present consumed by lies.  Lies in waiting.  My ladies.  We all fall down.  A dervish.  The whirling operatic and addictive.  Blue, bluer, bluish, blue.  The veins puddling the skin, surfacing.  Each revolution an adaptation.  Ashes.  Your love for perfectly cheap chardonnay paired with Thai food.  Your song.  A patience of language.  Archipelagoes of words on the tongue.  Lactic acid.  The margins of your cheeks.  Ransacked.  No time, no time, no time.  The body temperature will increase again due to the metabolic activity of the bacteria and other decomposing organisms.  Permanent cessation of electrical activity indicates the end of consciousness—you will see.  A complex reaction.