I

Admitted to the hospital again. The second bout of pneumocystis back In January almost killed him; then, He'd sworn to us he'd die at home. He baked Us cookies, which the student wouldn't eat, Before he left--the kitchen on 5A Is small, but serviceable and neat. He told me stories: Richard Gere was gay And sleeping with a friend of his, and AIDS Was an elaborate conspiracy Effected by the government. He stayed Four months. He lost his sight to CMV.

  II

One day, I drew his blood, and while I did He laughed, and said I was his girlfriend now, His blood-brother. "Vampire-slut," he cried, "You'll make me live forever!" Wrinkled brows Were all I managed in reply. I know I'm drowning in his blood, his purple blood. I filled my seven tubes; the warmth was slow To leave them, pressed inside my palm. I'm sad Because he doesn't see my face. Because I can't identify with him. I hate The fact that he's my age, and that across My skin he's there, my blood-brother, my mate.

  III

He said I was too nice, and after all If Jodie Foster was a lesbian, Then doctors could be queer. Residual Guilts tingled down my spine. "OK, I'm done," I said as I withdrew the needle from His back, and pressed. The CSF was clear; I never answered him. That spot was framed In sterile, paper drapes. He was so near Death, telling him seemed pointless. Then, he died. Unrecognizable to anyone But me, he left my needles deep inside His joking heart. An autopsy was done.

  IV

I'd read to him at night. His horoscope, The New York Times, The Advocate; Some lines by Richard Howard gave us hope. A quiet hospital is infinite, The polished, ice-white floors, the darkened halls That lead to almost anywhere, to death Or ghostly, lighted Coke machines. I call To him one night, at home, asleep. His breath, I dreamed, had filled my lungs--his lips, my lips Had touched. I felt as though I'd touched a shrine. Not disrespectfully, but in some lapse Of concentration. In a mirror shines

The distant moon.

A stunning poem. I think I had seen Campo's name as I was running out of a bookstore and since at that time I had an intense apathy to his profession, I didn't pick up to glance through that book of poems. And this makes up for that.

Here is an article Dr Campo wrote about using poetry as a healing device in mainstream medicine, an old truth I long knew.

Two hearts fading, like a flower. And all this waiting, for the power. For some answer, to this fire. Sinking slowly. The water’s higher. Desire

With no secrets. No obsession. This time I'm speeding with no direction. Without a reason. What is this fire? Burning slowly. My one and only. Desire

You know me. You don't mind waiting. You just can't show me, but God I'm praying, That you'll find me, and that you'll see me, That you run and never tire. Desire

From the album "Demolition". Another must listen track is Dear Chicago:

"Dear Chicago, You'll never guess. You know the girl you said I'd meet someday? Well, I've got something to confess. She picked me up on Friday. Asked me if she reminded me of you. I just laughed and lit a cigarette, Said "that's impossible to do." My life's gotten simple since. And it fluctuates so much. Happy and sad and back again. I'm not crying out to much. Think about you all the time. It's strange and hard to deal. Think about you lying there."

Run buy this one!