Two Poems by Jeffrey Lee

[11:03 p.m.]	*[sotto voce]*
I plead with an attendant to call you;	identity
he promises but leaves	without asking [etymology uncertain —
for any number...	idem ‘sameness,’ and identidem
I lurch at Blurred White, "Hey — where’s the phone?"	over and over again.’
[11:19 p.m.]	or
"Why — have I been restrained?"	from idem and entitas
A black smirk: "You the perpetrator?"	‘that being.’]
A white blurt: "Stop touching it.	1.
Someone’ll take care of it don’t worry."	The state or
[11:42 p.m.]	quality of
But my bandages bleed	being identical,
and each inhale aches —	or the condition of being
and my heart flowers into fire	the same
and a monster created out of me	in substance, composition,
groans alive,	nature,
rips velcro restraints,	properties
tugs tape free,	or
paws off glue,	in
clutches the aluminum bed on wheels,	particular
elevates a spastic torso	qualities
(amusement for some jeering patients)	under consideration;
slaps stilt limbs to the floor,	absolute
staggers past mannequin guards	or
into the red-alarmed eyes in the lobby —	essential
o those poor waiting people	sameness,
fill the Creation with homicide —	oneness.
[11:45 p.m.]
The phone’s so far away —	2. The sameness of
time itself slides elastic,	a person or thing
the longer each second stretches	at all times or
the stiffer each gets,	in all circumstances;
and the fluorescent lights	the condition
and the orange scoop chairs	or fact
and the chrome coin slot	that
of the black pay phone all glare	a person or thing
like broken glass is	is itself
under blinding magnesium flares	and not
and the half-snuffed relatives waiting for	something else;
doused patients stare at me	individuality,
and fear —	personality.
Wait — what’ll this cost me?
Personal identity (in Psychology)
What if the authentic self can only be
condition or fact of remaining the same person
recovered through authentic loss —
throughout the various phases of existence;
What else do I have to lose?
continuity of the
[11:58 p.m.] Blocks away, my friend Rob answers his phone: "Hey, how are you?" "I got attacked." "What hospital are you in?" "Methodist." He’s already coming: "Good. That’s in the neighborhood..." I know he will — but still I ask, "Can you come?" "Of course I’ll come. I’ll be right over." "Thanks," a stranger thanks Rob. "Well, actually, now that you mention it, I was going to do my hair tonight..." [11:59 p.m.] Punching in our number is the most violent act of all, to me, fearing for our lives’ story whose hand-sewn signatures may sliver apart when I wound our pages. How will you ever read again alone through the nights waiting up for me — you’re already scared: "Where are you?" "A hospital — I got attacked but I’ll. B — be okay." "What happened to you?" "I got attacked by some guy, but I’ll be okay." "Really?" [12:04 a.m.] The guards challenge me re-entering ER: "Hey where ya think you’re going?" "Who the hell ya think you are?" What kind of morons work here? "You cant go in there!" one actually yells. The clowns start to reach — I’m thinking throat, temple, neck – if — if it wouldn’t hurt my hands so much to kill them. The only nurse who taped me up, an asian-american, vouches: "He’s a patient." "Do you have any I.D?" "He’s a patient." [12:13 a.m.] Slumped into an orange glare, I confide: "Rob — you know, every time someone resembles him I want to kill him — but everyone resembles him. Half the guys in these chairs are him — even the little kids... I can’t help it... I want to kill every single one of them." "That must be hard for you..."
Without a pause
meanwhile, part of
I go on:
my mind drifts
"Habermas has this idea
back outside
that middle-class individuals
seeing canals of sky
lost hold of the public sphere
between black buildings,
hundreds of years ago —
and everyone’s white,
and corporate bodies
black or hispanic
have no conscience,
— I’m the sole asian —
their interests
are so inept,the cops
like aristocracies
believing
are so entrenched,
my attacker’s friend,
so veiled,
never even getting
there’s no hope
his name
for this whole generation
though he saw it all.
being trashed;
But they took
they have nothing,
my name
know nothing,
though I was
hate everything —
immobilized
their world’s
by pain.
such a prison
I want to kill
prisons are their shelters.
all of them.
But not hating them

is hard, now."
[1:27 a.m.] The bitter physician avers: "It might save your life, but it’s expensive... So, it’s up to you." I laugh — but laughing really hurts. "What would Heidegger do?" Rob jokes. I nod, "He’d get the X-rays to rule out the brain hemorrhage." "Well, then, you should too." "So, how long will it take?" Bitter explodes into close-up focus: "I told you what would happen. Weren’t you listening? I’m not going to tell you again!" Rob intervenes, he even steps half-between: "I’m sorry. My friend means no harm, but he isn't as clear as usual because of his – head injuries. He can’t remember you said the x-rays would mean another hour of waiting. Is there any way we could expedite this?" Biting back his anger, Bitten softens into a poof of smock, blows down-hall and leaves us in peace. [1:52 a.m.] "I don’t wanna find out 4th Avenue’s nick-name is Hamburger Hill..." "Man, didn’t I tell you not to gather material like this?" "Laughing hurts, Rob. Stop. Please." He presents all my poems (a surprise), then says deadpan: "Hey sign this — in case you don’t make it out of here, I want the death-bed edition. It could be worth something years from now." It hurts so much worse when I laugh but I want to — I want to feel hurt the way humans can.