Stories and movies generate around distorted things that happen when people donate hearts and livers to strangers. A girl falls in love with the husband of the heart she’s wearing. A guy loathes the 12-year-old Scotch he swore by every night for two decades and now lusts after a six-pack of Pabst in the can he used to find offensive. You get up each day, get dressed, eat, work or not work and bombard off people called family and friends.



An organ can fuck with the you of you that you believe is you.



You read about some guy in the newspaper who needs a kidney. He has no family. You have no family. Your ex-wife pilfers all your non-savings. You have no savings. You are forced to pay homage to a bank administrator named Angel who has glue-on nails the size of rulers, each with a painted heart on it. Her eyelashes are cryptic and you don’t know when they scatter like bats whether it means you will get the loan or you are screwed. You think about how much cooler your bungalow would be if you had an awning. She asks for more I.D.s and papers and you acquiesce. Her eyelashes lower and shadow half the desk. Angel’s wings are on the tips of eyes and fingers.



You decide to give your kidney to this man. You have become obsessed ever since you saw his photo in the paper. You are sure that the steam rising inside you is that bottomless bankruptcy of your life. He is someone you love from afar. You see the holes inside your organs and your brain expanding with each day. You can’t remember names of people you know, no matter how many times you meet them. They are black holes, the universe that you hazard within.



The man is extremely thankful. He finds out who you are and calls you. Your match is as elevated as winning Wimbledon. He will no longer be a prisoner of this non-achiever, this bloated bagpipe of wind that calls itself an organ of life. You will no longer be corrupted by nightmares of wandering huge cities alone, in the dark, trying to locate an existence that remains as defiled as your memory.

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You go to the hospital and lay in a gurney next to the man. You are mesmerized by his bald head and rumpled grin. They are brighter than irradiated spleens, lungs and heart. He is a family member who blazes through any devotion you have ever ransacked. This is a connection that whispers of death. You hold this man’s hand for a moment and he squeezes back. This is enough for a lifetime.