It’s always 9
When the march begins, you’ll
Lose time when…well, hardly
This is your feet in the frying pan
Your brain, off drugs as you are shoved by the white coats…call it love.
Them bones of yours bracing themselves against the good Earth in singular clarity, scream now against
a metaphor for your life, pain reality,
Flaking, blood baked trussels sway,
Screaming against the weight of your pain bearing down on you and the
Creeking, piercing cries that always
Insist you are back at no. 9.
It’s twenty down from four now and
You have really tried, to keep
your feet upon the Earth but you’re still at no. 9.
It’s always 9
where are we here when truth
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Where did my legs go this time?
perhaps, into the waters off Oahu,
Tiger sharks at my feet.
Tonight my loving wife and
my sweet mother won’t sleep
the machines will go beep beep beep.
Yes, count your friends
count them on one hand.
whenever you are ready.
This has been such a long siege.
swallowing pride, choking on pain,
do I really have to do this again?
Eric Clapton’s, “How Long Blues”
plays again, I have washed myself up
to wreck, presently to be broken.
Whatever breaks was meant to be
broken. Who said that? Maybe me, I’m
too close to the floor now to write poetry.
This is gonna hurt!
Note: Yes, #7 was supposed to be funny.
Posted in Chronic Chronicles, crps, diabetes, Poetry, rsd, The Strangest Life I've Ever Known | Tagged Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, diabetes, Eric Clapton, nerve damage, periphreal neuropathy, The blues | Leave a Comment »
Choke and swear
waving hands side to side,
just to get my message
past the blood-red tide
coursing in my veins, loosed from
collapsing rooms, that are dark with
dread, always pounding doom.
I come out from behind my eyes.
I can see you from ten feet high,
can’t come down till the
says I’m the circle
not the line
drawn across my face
I almost forget the Foxgloves but
remember them setting the red
watering can down.
Their dark green poise
cries out, wildly, against the canvas of colors
that festoon the deck I call
They must be thirsty too, so I
drew more water, more blue crystals
imagining their tender roots reaching in darkness
determined to be strong as above
their long curved lips dream
and drink from the sun.
I pour the meal like rain
coming down over the center as
suddenly the cicadas wake
wind out their song together,
a fluttering ancient whine
from the trees, that also dream,
I need time to think
hoisting the red watering can in