Tag Archives: diabetes

Effloresence

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

Type 2

If you can imagine a future for yourself
without, say, bread or beer, one

where your memory
will never fire into regret 

over a stray whiff of either of those,
count yourself among the lucky ones

who have the strength
to move on completely

into some blessed world of shrugging off
any nostalgia for past pleasure

in favor of a grim determination
to get better, to stay healthy, to not succumb

to that which will slay you in increments
thanks to your body’s insistence

upon acting up and doing the opposite
of what it was built to do; if you can imagine

giving up primary sensation in favor
of living in a more or less diminished way 

compared to the way you have always lived
and still finding it worth your time to live —

if you can do this, pull up a chair and speak to me
in low tones of how you do this, for indeed

I cannot entirely find my way clear to any future happiness
knowing that I have surrendered the things that gave me

such past happiness — the tough-into-tender mouth feel
of still-warm bread, crust yielding to cloud of earth and heaven

combined; the deep bitter-over-sweet chewiness of a fine stout
at the end of a bad day and the exhalation, eyes closed,

upon swallowing that first good gulp of stress-relief; Lord knows
I miss these, and if you say it’s a question of dying or staying alive

and it ought to be an easy choice, I say
yes, exactly, it is a difference between dying or staying alive

but as I barely live and barely breathe, 
I don’t know what to call this existence tonight.  Tomorrow

I will surely be OK, and the day after, and in the long term
I’ll figure out some moderation or accommodation; but tonight

I just want some excess of good bread and good beer again,
that good life that exalted me even as it was killing me.


Swinging

It’s early and I’m at the stove
eating oatmeal cooked from scratch;
steeping good tea in a great big cup
while thinking about what I know:

that I am probably going to die
from self-inflicted wounds someday,
and it’s likely the bombs that will do it
are these that I know I’ve already set.

One of these days I’ll start exercising.
Maybe I’ll be good at it.  Maybe the diet and
activity will pay off. Maybe I’ll soon be smaller,
lighter on the earth.

None of it will change a thing.
I’ll die anyway.  I’ll die because
dying’s what we do.  I might do it tomorrow,
I might make it another twenty years

before I go, but I will go.
If I go today while standing at the stove,
spoonful of mush falling from my hand
and the tea spilling as I flail and drop?

I hope I look silly down there on the floor.
Not tragic; not resigned
to ending up a punchline in a poor man’s bed.
Let them say too little too late,

chuckle a little when they picture the scene.
Let them say whatever they want
as long as they include the phrase
he went down swinging, swinging to the end.