"Wheeled cradled, blank-faced and blue-brained to the hospital chapel, I watch the ivory pastor's hands trace shadow rabbits in the air under the florescent cross and list my sins in silence as he drones redemption; maybe St. Peter will greet me in heaven with a new guitar. Something babbles into static as my stroked-out arm relaxes... A tumor dripping ink now fills my mind, a black bud swelling to blood-blossom, ready to costume me in blood--- Stalking back from the guillotine like a 50s zombie blitzed on my first part in the Bs, I wake socketed in the nMR chamber like a bullet waiting for the green light to flit my diagnosis on the big screen, the chart a map of Europe. I lay enlarged; drugged and irradiated like a fallen fruit. I still laugh when I hear a democrat's ill. I was worse: my perennial, emboldened humor ramping like a bull, I crooned Dukakis is bald from my black marshall stacks for the innocent fetuses at the Republican convention, dating Miss America still.... I'm sorry I kicked his Greek hynee. Sorry for all that."