complications in the country
my blood and the nerves of the hand
have led me
to distrust my senses
and be flush with anger
perpetually
others think I should
let this flow into
my art and thus be cured
jackass thoughts
if my poems were ever therapeutic
I’d have never gotten to this point
think of them instead
as efflorescence on the hide
of a flimsy house of rotten brick
that I have shaken off
and let fall outside the house
you think it’s beautiful there on the ground
but the house is still
rotten and I am still
sick in this country
where I am trying to nurse
my syrupy blood and my dead nerves
to something like an ending all can stomach
I gave up on storybook happy
a long time ago and nothing I write
could change that
Leave a comment | tags: aging, death, diabetes, meditations, poems, poetry | posted in poetry