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After each visit
After each visit with you the texture
of light shifts — slows, tilts, sharpens — like the opening bars of fever.
I watch another bad Beethoven movie
trapped in a script with Ed Harris. He must ask the fictional female to wash his combed belly, I must watch his waxed butt.
Like you, Beethoven spoke with notebooks,
friends competed to help. Ideals, the Enlightenment, lit everything.
Doesn't make you Beethoven,
with his blood-laced shit, belly cut and drained.
In his Ninth, all men become brothers.
I always cry when I hear its ode, like a rat in a maze hearing the note for shock.
You say, ‘Everything has sentience’
and ‘We have lost respect’.
When your catheter leaks, all
I can think to say is, ‘Buddhists drink the stuff.’
Outside light flickers,
celluloid burns through to the Ninth's exquisite pain, melting back to my father's anger, jumping to the ode. Jumping back to you.
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