fresh carrots on the cutting board 

doctor, give me the novocaine.
the needle to the ceiling, between
the overhead lights & the fan blades
becoming airplanes. take off
& the runway of a pale tongue.
they took out four of my teeth
& shoved my face full of gauze. 
now i have to find them again because
you have to be buried with all
parts of your body. if left alone
those parts will grow new humans,
roots growing from the tooth, the little
red veins twisted & popped. 
where did you put all my baby teeth?
you're supposed to keep them 
in a mason jar & watch them become seeds.
the fish rush onto the river banks 
& slap themselves hard enough into
the earth to become seeds. i want
to pull all this genealogy out
of my mouth by the leafy-parts, like 
fat orange carrot legs. feel the 
genus & species coming out, let's
weed the garden. the sigh the earth
makes when roots come out all together.
what happens then? do i get to come
undone? more numbness, more moon.
they stripped the sun down to 
a pin point & jammed it into the
ceiling-- oral surgery of a soul--
the novocaine-- more novocaine.
syringe to soil. up to my wrists in
dirt as i diffuse. the scattering
of cells without a dart-board. throw
me harder & faster towards the red 
spot-- the blushy mars with her 
teeth falling out on the operating
room floor. i will find the teeth
before they turn into raspberry jam 
or another human even if i've scattered  
to just a mass of wandering cells,
easily inhaled. consciousness; becoming
a piece of cellphane wrap pulled in
infinite directions, catching the weeds  
as they're plucked. examine the carrots
like baby teeth, their follicles & thighs, 
their insistence of abnormality.
peeling off tangerine skin in the trash can
like you asked. 
i drive to the dentist office
where they did the deed only to find
that it's now a laundry mat, coins
all rolling out of an open front door.
i dig in the soil outside, hoping that maybe
just maybe the surgeons had the sense
to bury my teeth before they got
any ideas about coming alive on their own. 
they must be destroyed. there is a garden
& a bloody strawberry patch & 
the carrots are skin-- fingers & toes,
other patients whose bodies
had already  become to regenerate.
you must kill the double, but only your
own. there's fights left under all
our dirty fingernails. the novocaine doctor--
the ceiling is caving in.
should i plant myself or keep searching?
the coins are tails up.