pb

tomorrow morning i shall go under the knife, the nice man in the mask and crow's feet eyes having drawn me under with his funny gas and quiet, canned assurances. i'll lie on my back, artficial air forced into my lungs while dreams of the forever black nothing swirl inside my skull.

there'll be that moment of panic, that possible last glimpse of light and the faded daisies stitched into some awful hospital johnny. i'll think to myself that i don't want my last glimpse of reality to be my naked toes; that my daughter and son will never hold my pinky fingers as we cross some leaf heavy, autumn street. i'll hold male bravado like a brittle, stoic malaise across my features, cheeks rough with stubble because they don't want you smelling of shave cream and fear.

its a minor thing, this knife, this gas, this last glimpse of the real--just a small break across the nose, some removal of offending cartilage and bone, a hole dug in flesh and sinus to allow for more air and less pain.

if i shan't wake tomorrow a second time, disoriented and thirsty with dreams of She swirling to nothing in the drain of reality--well, if i don't i don't.

i've never dived this deep towards death, away from control and consciousness. they say its routine, that its harmless save for sore flesh and black eyes. i just don't want to be an anonymous statistic; i've raged against that all my days and to become such in death would be the ultimate, poetic irony.

oh, i'll have a friend take picstures to commemorate the occasion.




yours,
-pb