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DISEASE OF THE SOUL

Mel Waldman

“He’s got the disease of the soul,”
the
Doc
says.
“His mind’s split.
A diagonal hole
in
his
brain,
a gold arrow
mocking,
maiming,
mutilating memory.”

The words vanish.
Launched from the Doc’s lips,
they make thoughts that
�� pass through
�� the man’s skull
�� &
�� out,

vibrations
in
Berkeley’s
empty forest
�� leaving no traces
�� no synaptic connections
for
the old man
who is only fifty
has the Big A.

He’s gone away
to a barren place where nothing leaves a trace
��nothing is perceived
�� therefore nothing exists
�� especially
�� the old young man
�� with the disease of the soul.

Still, I exist
once,
every light year,
for a billionth of a second.

I watch him
from a distance.
I watch.
Help me!
Please,
help me!
Call me!
Call my name!
Catch me!
Catch my soul!
Before ...
I’m banished to Berkeley’s empty forest forever.
Forever
lost in a place
where nothing is perceived, nothing exists,
�� not even an old young man
�� or his vanishing mind.



Scars Publications


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