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message 1: by J (new)

J (keeponestepahead) | 138 comments When the Pox comes from China,
I want to be on board the flight
To be the first to catch the sneeze.

Slowly dying, I’ll be a medical mystery;
The first to catch the flu in centuries,
Doctors prodding me endlessly.

Outside the red asphalt is covered
With men in voodoo suits,
Scouring the streets for survivors.

I’m coughing like Sylvia Plath,
Like Anne Sexton, I’ve got
No room in my lungs for life.

I have no last rites to be read;
No Buddhist belief that I’ll come back,
No cross, no lecherous preacher.

Seven million and rising;
The tally is on CNN as I lay,
Bruised and pissing in my bed.

The woman in the bed over
Clutches this cross to her chest
And snorts like a coke fiend.

I want to smother the last breath
Out of her frail body; she’s just old,
She doesn’t have the flu, she’s just old.

In my last dream, I see a tarantula
Crawling on the hospital ceiling.
It bounces from corner to corner.

I ask the nurse if she can see it,
If she sees the spider waltzing,
And she asks for my bedpan.

-J. Templin

message 2: by J (new)

J (keeponestepahead) | 138 comments Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

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