So some of the other poems in the book
are from my time in the military where
I happen to find out that I have fibromyalgia.
So that was an interesting experience.
[LAUGHS] It took like two years for them to figure out what
was wrong with me.
And in the meanwhile, they kept saying that I was crazy.
So this is "Fibromyalgia AKA".
"Fibromyalgia, a.k.a.
common syndrome, a.k.a.
wastebasket diagnosis, a.k.a.
malingering, a.k.a.
unknown cause a.k.a.
real innervation of the physical, a.k.a.
no hope for a room where the wounded move,
where the healthy cannot be bothered.
Hospital, hospice, home, beware a death
of sight, a weakness, a.k.a.
wrestle the so-called civilization theatrically
in extracted source, a.k.a.
where to really see where lines, fragility
lines, every intervening glance, a.k.a.
lucky if you can see from the end
right back to the beginning, avoid
the typical snatching up of medicated packaging,
desperately swallowing the sexy glossary, a terrifying leech,
a.k.a.
pain beginning in the web of intrical pascular connections
where the brain's insular cortex chit
chat goes awry and not enough muscle
to fight any of it, a.k.a.
subtle, a.k.a.
a fingerprint pressed down, ink seeping, staining, a.k.a.
chaff, city debris through unbearably intricate grates,
a.k.a. a vase of stems, the flower
heads lopped off, arranged in a bowl
to wave their colors in the dark.
If still standing, ask anyone who will listen--
though most art, won't--
how do I look?"