The Review that Kills

Photo credit: penywise from morguefile.com

The review that kills finds the poet at home

alone on a wintry night, furnace on the blink,

three months into a trial separation,

his best friend - so he thought - departed,

two thirds into the second six-pack,

sifting through better reviews from the past.

Who is this 'crickit' who pens the review that kills?

A fellow amateur failed in love or art?

A woman with impossible standards, an ex-lover with a grudge,

Another expert trying to stake out a claim?

Is it the man who, asked if his journal would consider light verse,

answered "Not as long as I am editor."

After the burial, friends and acquaintances denounce

the review that killed; how a sensitive man

with whom they had shared the six-packs of respite

succumbed to a masterful blow

at his history and quirky humor,

the un-ethnic way he spelled his first name,

how he refused to write mainly for his own tribe

and be one more minor poet

from some mountainous village overseas.

Friends gather for a few drinks and a memorial reading,

of the very work that was savaged,

silently comparing their own poems

to those of the unsung martyr, dead

by his own tippy hand, by something

approaching choice;

while somewhere, in the lull

of one more passing season,

the same devout reviewer reloads —

~ Ron Charach

The Review that Kills

Photo credit: penywise from morguefile.com

The review that kills finds the poet at home

alone on a wintry night, furnace on the blink,

three months into a trial separation,

his best friend - so he thought - departed,

two thirds into the second six-pack,

sifting through better reviews from the past.

Who is this 'crickit' who pens the review that kills?

A fellow amateur failed in love or art?

A woman with impossible standards, an ex-lover with a grudge,

Another expert trying to stake out a claim?

Is it the man who, asked if his journal would consider light verse,

answered "Not as long as I am editor."

After the burial, friends and acquaintances denounce

the review that killed; how a sensitive man

with whom they had shared the six-packs of respite

succumbed to a masterful blow

at his history and quirky humor,

the un-ethnic way he spelled his first name,

how he refused to write mainly for his own tribe

and be one more minor poet

from some mountainous village overseas.

Friends gather for a few drinks and a memorial reading,

of the very work that was savaged,

silently comparing their own poems

to those of the unsung martyr, dead

by his own tippy hand, by something

approaching choice;

while somewhere, in the lull

of one more passing season,

the same devout reviewer reloads —

~ Ron Charach

MRI

Photo credit: jkt_de from morguefile.com

Nothing left, no more futuristic tests

to light up a world of misfiring sensation

and surprisingly lasting pain

In the MRI waiting room, gown pants and booties,

a small-town long-hair returns from the test,

"It was nothin' —" he brags, " — like bein' inside a Pink Floyd CD."

But the elderly lady said,

"Those MRIs are the worst."

Questioned for rings, watch,

recent operations' clips, pacemakers —

I'm rollered into a cool-white plastic chamber,

a huge laundromat dryer, wind tunnel

with only a few inches'

clearance for face, trunk and arms,

claustrophobia,

premature burial.

I await the draw of The Magnets,

their Holstian 50,000 times stronger than gravity

to line up all my hydrogen atoms,

bombard me with radio frequencies

and scan every change.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging

photos as perfect, as cadaverous

as those in the Atlas of Anatomy.

I wear earphones.

Already I've known the CT Scan,

its crazed drumbeats followed by

ten thousand pounds of hamburger grinding.

The technician warned:

"You'll hear knocking noises, then a drilling sound

that will last one to four minutes.

There will be knocks like premonitions,

then an electroshock vibrando will shake you to your core

and redefine 'heart-throb', 'incessant' and 'compelling'.

You'll breathe at ever-higher volumes

without daring to move, waiting for the

hovering craft to leave.

Think of your body as a tooth

encountering a five-story drill.

Think of this as your biggest-ever brush

with high tech."

After the longest minutes life offers,

I vow to refuse the next fifteen.

Yet when they wheel me out

and ask "Howya doing?"

I answer, "Nothin' beats it."

~ Ron Charach

___________________________________________

I thought I was just getting old. I didn't think nothing of it. But I decided this week to go get an MRI done. Now it all makes sense. ~ Kenny Perry

MRI

Photo credit: jkt_de from morguefile.com

Nothing left, no more futuristic tests

to light up a world of misfiring sensation

and surprisingly lasting pain

In the MRI waiting room, gown pants and booties,

a small-town long-hair returns from the test,

"It was nothin' —" he brags, " — like bein' inside a Pink Floyd CD."

But the elderly lady said,

"Those MRIs are the worst."

Questioned for rings, watch,

recent operations' clips, pacemakers —

I'm rollered into a cool-white plastic chamber,

a huge laundromat dryer, wind tunnel

with only a few inches'

clearance for face, trunk and arms,

claustrophobia,

premature burial.

I await the draw of The Magnets,

their Holstian 50,000 times stronger than gravity

to line up all my hydrogen atoms,

bombard me with radio frequencies

and scan every change.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging

photos as perfect, as cadaverous

as those in the Atlas of Anatomy.

I wear earphones.

Already I've known the CT Scan,

its crazed drumbeats followed by

ten thousand pounds of hamburger grinding.

The technician warned:

"You'll hear knocking noises, then a drilling sound

that will last one to four minutes.

There will be knocks like premonitions,

then an electroshock vibrando will shake you to your core

and redefine 'heart-throb', 'incessant' and 'compelling'.

You'll breathe at ever-higher volumes

without daring to move, waiting for the

hovering craft to leave.

Think of your body as a tooth

encountering a five-story drill.

Think of this as your biggest-ever brush

with high tech."

After the longest minutes life offers,

I vow to refuse the next fifteen.

Yet when they wheel me out

and ask "Howya doing?"

I answer, "Nothin' beats it."

~ Ron Charach

___________________________________________

I thought I was just getting old. I didn't think nothing of it. But I decided this week to go get an MRI done. Now it all makes sense. ~ Kenny Perry