This is a selection of poems from Fuck You Cancer & Other Poems (A Crooked Cloud Project)

published in a limited edition of 500 copies, hors de commerce,

©Rick Fields, 1997

Some of these poems were written B.D. (Before Diagnosis), and included because they seemed appropriate, or, perhaps, prophetic, or because they wanted to be. A handful were published previously-- in Zero, Tricycle, Inquiring Mind, The Vajradhatu (now Shambhala) Sun, and Yoga Journal; or in books, Grace and Grit by Ken Wilber, Dharma Gaia, ed. by Allan Hunt Badiner, In the Footsteps of Gandhi, ed. Catherine Ingram

Fuck You Cancer & Other Poems is available for $10 from:

Crooked Cloud Projects

48 Shattuck Square, Box 42

Berkeley, CA 94704

 

Here We Go

There was the cough, slight, irritating, no more than trying to clear my throat of some minor obstruction. A test for tuberculosis, negative; for ulcers, negative; x-rays negative; allergies, negative; a tropical disease specialist, negative. Psychics came up with disastrous dramatic past lives, but still the cough persisted.

One night I dreamed a nail lodged in my throat. The next day, heeding the call of the unconscious, I saw an Ear, Nose and Throat man. A dryness in the larynx, nothing more, he gave me some pills and off I went to India, reassured.

On the ghats of the Ganges, in Varnasi, Shiva's city, just one hit off the chillum with the naked sadhus, my voice broke to a froggy whisper- croak.

When I got back to the States I had the hard lymph node above my collar-bone taken out and biopsed while the doctor and nurse listened and laughed at the O.J trial on the radio. I called next Friday afternoon. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's not good."

Here we go, I thought, as the floor disappeared beneath me.

Extra

God is extra

I is extra

Extra is extra

Ode

A little cell

loses its way

goes astray

 

The gates of hell

creak open

stench of sulfurous decay

 

A teenie tiny bit

of living matter

A cell

 

Forgets to die

takes upon itself

to multiply

 

Little cell

where are you going?

Please stop growing

 

Like everything born

both you and I

have our time to die

 

Don't be a thorn

in the soul of my life

don't be a knife

in the heart

of my life

Go away you've had your fun

 

I've got things to do

places to see

races to run

Petals (for Marcia)

I spilled the flowers

Pale pink petals

 

Funny

what can scare

you in this world

 

one day

pale pink petals

scattered on the table

 

another day

gray-black petals

three little shadows

 

spilled, scattered

backlit on

the shiny film

there!

in the lower left lobe

 

I reach for

 

your fingertips

pale pink petals

brush

my cheek

 

This world--

 

Funny

how

in the light of death

everything

shines!

 

Riding the Rhinoceros

Balanced precariously

I look down and see

not the earth

but a rhinoceros

moving slowly

ponderously

 

his eyes are small and red

and close together

his skin is gray greasy leather

armored folds

snot drips down flaring nostrils

on top of which a single horn

--oh evil unicorn--

that gores and kills.

He has no frills.

Tsetse flies

buzz round his eyes

And I

am delicately balanced

poised

on his back

As long as I ride

he doesn't know I'm there

as he rumbles through the tall

grass of the Savannah

I look around--lions, gazelles,

vultures, great herds of zebras

a wonderful world

borrowed time from eternity

I breathe the hot sweet air

Stare

Death sits on my shoulder.

A life-time of karma squats

on my nose

stares straight into my eyes

This Is Ridiculous

This is ridiculous

What made these cells

Rebel?

A lazy immune system?

Pollution in Kathmandu.

Genetics. Mutation.

Cigarette smoke long ago.

Unexpressed anger.

Fear of love.

Karma.

All or

None of the above.

 

This is ridiculous

A portacath in my chest

Thin clear plastic tubing

Delivering cysplatin and 5 FU.

 

Ensure for food

Morphine for pain

Marinol for appetite

Kytril for nausea

Advil for sleep

 

Sit on the toilet

Shit and vomit at once

 

O This is ridiculous

And still

I'll sing my song.

 

Varanasi

Passing by

Silver and gold sari

Covered corpse

Dawa

Hip 20 year old

Dharamsala girl

says:

"Tibetans say

When you see dead

It's good luck."

"Why?"

"Makes people pray."