The Meat of the Bacon Fish

Bacon fish meat
is the stuff of lore in the mountains

I saw the Captain Lou Albano look-alike
savoring one tiny bite after the other
from his corner table outside Beggar’s

His beard dusted with tumeric
eyes googly with intense reflection
on how wonderful it must have tasted

I sat three tables down
asked for what he was having
but the hunched old lady leaned in
and said that he had gotten the only bacon fish of the day

I ordered blackened Tilapia instead
and mused over purple soda as the sun bent into an oval
and dug into the blue hills

Room 816, Bed 2

If it’s not your heart it’s your guts
he explained all white jacket all narcotic halo
all soft and tolerable

I counted the skyscraper pens in his pocket
remarked he might need a protector someday

He glanced up from his PDA hybrid strangely furrowed
as if I meant bodyguard or Jesus or something
so I adjusted my bed up slow mechanical agony and patience
slurring NO NO for your jacket the ink in your fourteen pens
laughing deep and exasperated and hoping the crotchety Czech nurse
would swoop around the periwinkle/ cobalt curtain with more dope

Smirking he brought me back around to where he seriously needed me:

In order to heal the hole in the gut
the sanctity of the heart must to be monitored and managed
a fine artful balance of anticoagulation and antibiotics

I could only think what’s the difference between acting
with your heart or your gut anyways