A poem what I wrote

drink medicine, bitter and black on your tongue
roots and scum and dried beetles frothing
on your kitchen stove, tendrils of the past one

thousand generations reach your tongue cracked and
pale, trembling in your mouth like leaves in the
wind. who is it now that stands at your door? why,

it's John Pai shaking a finger, laughing but
uncomfortable. you make him cry inside, you
don't understand the medicine, you moxa

the yin channels and of your formulas I
can only ask – thousand island, blue cheese, ranch
or viniagrette? stand up straighter when you reach

for the needle. Hua Tuo is watching you and
he doesn't like what he sees. a fountain of
phlegm blue-black and frothy wells up, confounds your

orifices and seals your portals. Shake it
loose, gently. be calm, take the wind out your sails.
breathe slowly and deeply, empty yourself so

that you might be filled. we are only channels
after all, qi pumps, unlimited phosphorescence
in a galaxy accelerating towards

nothingness, separation of yin and yang
and eventual return to the one, which
produces the two and so on until we

get back here, to PCOM, to teachers with big
egos and students with big loans. Let's all pray
and hope – that I can give a good performance –

and that it doesn't rain.