Saturday, November 1, 2014

Arranged Still Life (and Other Spatial Deformations)











Kaci Hickox

First off, before posting this, I want to say I appreciate very much the work this woman does for Doctors without Borders.

She is much braver than I am.

And I'm 99% sure she is fine.

But if it were me, I'd like to think I would do the twenty-one day quarantine for the sake of others.

I don't know if Ms. Hickox had multiple negative tests, because there is a concern about false negatives with the Ebola PCR.

And it might be a possibility that some people never test positive for Ebola, even if infected. You see this sort of thing.

Granted, probability is on this woman's side. But it still seems as though she's clinging to a "certainty" which cannot be true certainty.

Here's to a happy and healthy November 10th (her twenty-one days up).

I hope she and her loved ones go out and celebrate on that day.

But the "I told you so" speech she'll doubtlessly give will still be a dubious thing to me.



THING IS


That nurse up in Maine
cannot know if she's infected,
a cat's paw of plague
in the hand of the Reaper,
not before the incubation period
of the virus elapses.
Yes, she's tested negative
for the virus, but tests
can err, and false negatives
have occurred
with the Ebola PCR.
Still, she holds forth
like Louis Pasteur
and lectures everyone,
because we are all so dumb.
Don't we have eyes to see
it could never happen to her.
Ebola wouldn't dare.
Just look at her ruddy cheeks,
the pink of perfection,
her flowing hair.
Just look at how like an athlete
she is, pumping the pedals on her ten speed,
laughing as she rolls past
autumn cornfields and cemeteries.
And her body? Either a ticking
epidemiological timebomb,
or nothing to worry about,
her conscience clear
in a few more days,
or filled with images
out of Bosch,
except these bodies completely real,
her lover and how many others,
right down the hall from her,
all sealed in hermetic rooms
like hers,
and tended by others
in those eerie spacesuits,
as she seeks to explain
and perhaps apologize
for not understanding
the impossible
can sometimes
follow us home
and just wait.

B.P.

The B.P. oil spill is still lying at the bottom of the Gulf like a giant donut. B.P. contests this scientific fact. I guess they think the oil went to Mars when nobody was looking.

I just saw this on the BBC the other night. A quick check reveals American media also reported on the "Rhode Island-sized bathtub ring."

The depths of the ocean are largely currentless, and the spill just settled out at the bottom of the Gulf, which is holding it in that large ring shape.

B.P. should be forced to legally change the name of all its gas stations here to "Tar and Feather." (They can add the LLC if they want.)

Same deal with Exxon all these years later. Minus the LLC. Did you know that virtually all those good samaritans and kind souls who assisted in that (Valdez) cleanup ended up dying way before their time from the toxicity? Probably most of them had no idea when they were rescuing the wildlife that they were going to pay with their lives.


Shady History

Who will own
the umbrage
today?


Autumn Dawn

Rich eyelashes
left on a small
horizontal mirror.

Desire

Chicken skin left on a plate:
thoughts of bat wing,
then bloody scrotal sac

opened up, repurposed

in sex reassignment clinic.

Deer nose moss

on the mountain behind.

Snuffling means desire.




Schrodinger (2)

Schrodinger let
what cat
out of what bag?

(Nothing happened,
and besides
I wasn't there.)

Meow.