- Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost - 20090111 - Rumi MUM two

Bits of Interest, and More Rumi, on Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost

 

confused puppet interviews himself; the
blues guitar goes twang; Rustin reads a robust rendition of some
rousing rural rarebits. This all happens Sunday at 10:30am/Monday 1:30 pm central.

Daffodils
bloom, fevers
flash, nebulae hover,

pulse
white and yellow. Can you smile dawn and dusk
and pretend it doesn't hurt? The nurse

stops
a moment her whirl,

all
too perky, asks if you glitter,

oh organ donor, before they wheel you

to surgery. The anesthesiologist,

wishes
upon the shining gears of heaven,

squirts

the eternally lit sixteen candles

of
clear liquids into the IV catheter.

Are
you a machine or Aphrodite’s birthday cake?

Can they turn your lights off and on?

Are
you the point of lethal injection?

Someday
you’ll forget, thank God. Newspaper?

Percolator? You wake with a funny
steam

where
the words for the opportunity

rise
from your nose, then you are asked

to sign something, the signature

comes from having your eyes opened by bells

and
isn't yours, and you wake and say yes,

machine, night shirt on pillow,
emergency, and red,

I'm
alive, yes, I get to try and figure

the
city, for long hours, without seeing breakfast

all over again, I know

the
gumball, doodlebugs, buzz bombs, and rope

of
what you mean. You say, okay, this is good.