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Poem

You don’t know this but
we’re all ISBN’s. At birth,
we’re tattooed across our asses
with barcodes, ID tags, social security numbers.
The only doctors allowed
to perform this surgical move
were trained in suits and sunglasses,
were handcuffed to computer suitcases,

held galas in mansions in the hills
of Virginia, roamed secretly through tunnels
beneath Abe Lincoln’s feet, they infiltrated
every hospital, mandated staff to hand over
the key cards. Don’t be alarmed.

Chocolate brownies can still
hold good dreams, peanuts, and marijuana.
This information should not stop you,
you wondered before about those
seven digits printed across the tops of your pay stubs,
didn’t you? And the 48906 signature on every document
from your university.

Yes, you see now. All along,
that tattoo on your soul numbers destiny:
one of the numbers stands for the birthday
of your child, one for the day your parents will find
cancer sinking its teeth in their osteoperostic bones,
and one lists the street address of the building
you will die in. The hospital’s phone number
is merely a set of numbers. Ask them

what they’ve done to you, and they’ll shrug
their white-collar shoulders.


To view this poem on my blog, visit http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/12/lucky-numbers-2-10-24-65-93.html.

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