Art

of the

Antibody

i

My bed, a hospital bed.

My sleep, a remedy.

This is how I work

with the universe,

by allowing angels 

to operate.

Sleep, my anesthetic.

Once under,

the surgery begins.

Serving a greater good

was not my youthful intention.

I am as selfish as the next,

encouraged by an errant 

culture. Everything a bait for

choice and self expression.

But a dream is choice-less;

the way of a leaf in wind.

I was born in Selfservia;

a country that is nothing

if not self aggrandizing.

I was born to individuate.

Illness is my muse.

From the very beginning I had

immense capacity for joy.

It sprung from disparity:

a sorrow of circumstance.

I felt the fate of things

having been discarded,

an inconvenient child. 

If a thing is valued for

it’s beauty, usefulness, 

or cost, we are objects.

But I am not an object.

I am an antibody.

ii

Our mission, a holy one;

to incorporate and disperse.

But first we must live as one.

One with things and people 

outside and all around us.

One we contain within;

a dream within a dream.

One we remember fondly.

One we recall with regret.

One we wish for.

One we deal with.

One we are afraid of.

One we escape from.

One we can’t escape.

One we return to.

One we come back from.

One you see.

One we show.

One we hide.

iii

To dream is to

perform our illness

on a stage

as both

play and patron

and most of all

player. 

In the first stage

my bike is stolen

and I’m stranded.

I need a vessel 

to do what I 

need to do.

With nowhere to go

I pass the time

halfheartedly hovering 

over a puzzle

whose pieces 

float up to

the surface 

alongside images 

awaiting inclusion

in a

more authentic

work of art.

Both suspended 

and in suspense,

I live under arrest

for living life 

as if I were

dreaming as well.

In stage three

a plane falls 

from the sky 

beside me,

the impact 

so violent

there’s nothing left

of the plane 

or any of its 

passengers,

as if the ground 

had swallowed 

a dead thing 

with wings.

My double arrives

on the periphery 

taking an interest 

in my puzzle,

dabbing at the pieces

in order to lock

them in place.

I allow 

my double

to dabble,

turning away 

ill at ease 

at being stuck 

in this place 

without a bike

to take me

to the touchstones

of time and space. 

Turning

back I find

my puzzle

whole.

How’d you do that?

My double says 

something 

I can’t hear

though I pretend 

to hear

and then I 

ask my twin

his name.

What does it matter? 

What will that do?

“I need to

call you something.” 

I notice my double 

scrutinizing my

impromptu attempt

at art

like a spy 

gleaning for clues.

I tell my twin

I lost 

my agency

in stage one, 

even though

this was stage two 

and there was

no assurance

of a stage three

we might

reunite in.

My double too 

had had 

something taken 

from him.

So we are

both in the same 

imaginary boat

on a fabric

of water

without an oar

between us,

let alone

a bike.

My double says, 

unbidden:

No worries,

we are many,

you and I.

One with things 

and others

outside and 

all around us.

One we have 

within us,

a dream within 

a dream.

One we remember.

One we wish for.

One we deal with.

One we are afraid of.

One we escape from.

One we escape toward.

One we return to.

One we return from.

One we create in.

One we perform.

One we observe.

One we move on from.

One we wake up from.

 

My twin continues:

In this operating

theatre,

habits, meals,

jobs, pastimes,

hold no weight. 

All that matters

is what we

let go of.

Yet, at this stage

we can’t make

anything happen

without incorporation,

while life goes on

being a grace

granted only 

through 

surrender.

11/1/21