Knock on wood

O' American Sycamore-
what dost thou stand for?

Emigrant from England three and three 

quarters score, long along years ago-

And you allegedly pledged your allegiance,
Christening yourself O' Nort 'occidentalis'

signaling westerly growth,

a reminder of the Fall.

Both bark and buds ooze 

with bloom booze, 
how apropos, you know.

The mottled and molted trunk-sheds,

splotches on white, a complexion

that shows you belong, hanging out
(in)toxic(ated) tracts,

peduncles on branchlets

achenes subjective gravitational

caducous coated in tomentum.

And some come foreboding and tall-

but are all hollow 

inside, naturally swept up

saw dust, bore nee by beetled 

witch's broom. 

Image By Huw Williams (Huwmanbeing) (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Winning the Lottery

Wealth is having more than you need.
I, too, am guilty of this.
I must confess,
I have laundered some change,
this week.
The same exact six cents
I keep finding in different denim jeans.
And when I think about it,
having an extra six
sense-may not be worth anything
solid, except an extra thought-
that buys a cents of monetary health.





Image By Elembis (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dead-lines make us dance

I am going to die.

Not today, I really hope.

Inevitably I will it so someday.
Not this one,

I know, I can control that. Will. Be.

Able to stop the Time: why we write. Though,

all know, the endings are not ours.

Cracks in the porcelain grow-stress-lines

like faults at forty. At thirty, we don’t think

of meeting our match-in dem eyes. 

Now Ecstasy we see

helps alleviate the stress.

Chemically, elasticizes the skin,
that tightens in fear, out-looking grim,

youth is fear-less-ignored-immortal.

I’m-mortal-immortality?
How could we want more…

sublime with the time we have

had-enough time-time enough.

“Relieved of the burden of passion, and freed from the pressure of desire”

Sounds serene, quiescence, in essence, is nothing left to say

any other way.

Sleep. Sueño.

Nobody stops to Thank Death
for bringing these:

Dreams, drive, to do, be for, we go.

Dead-lines makes us dance.

“The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.”
-Edgar Allan Poe

Image of painting by Thomas Pollock Anshutz [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

At the end of a rainbow

Maybe balance is found
when we don't carry
more than we need.

Maybe wealth is found
not wanting more
than we have earned.

Maybe forgiveness
can be found
from others who give.

Maybe love can be found
when we stop looking
for ourselves.

Maybe wisdom is found
when knowing
doesn't answer the questions.

Maybe happiness
is finding wonder where
intangible things
may be...




Image By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Peace(s)

Crumbled
into randomized fragments
of pointed feeling
the blunted parts
have no meaning
anymore-aligned-
once was whole

Fumbled
for something solid
like nerve
and trembled when I touched
down and felt myself
holding air

-There-
I stumbled
on steep logic, up
alps of apprehension
cast-over-shadow scintillant

Humbled and haggard,
I mumble in awe...
Matter moves (us)
to make a sign.




Image stained glass window, All Saints By Poliphilo (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Financials

After receiving the report
twenty-five years after writ-
there is quite a bit to process.

I guess it is accurate. It says
sixteen years ago, in two-thousand
we will live up to eighty
making more than seven hundred-
thousand hours to work
Total

Amounting to
forty hours in five days
some spend one hundred
and fifty thousand of these pleasing others-
rather-even-just-seventy five thousand hours
making money, a must
making
Nothing but Money
-for else-making
temporality more tolerable,
comfortable in
Cash

Not all agree on the bottom line,
which is what you take home
necessitating a (safety) net worth
under your trap-ease
to catch you when the bottom
drops.

From the way I read
this P and L, I can tell
accrued assets don't carry over
as easy as debts-
By the numbers I'd bet
(all) on yourself,
working on
building value,
oddly that is how interest accrues
even broke(n).



Image By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons, "Brains and how to get them," 1913.

Marsupial Mavens

Ninety percent of All humanity
live North of the equator
I sit in California in the sun
at thirty-three degrees or so
it is sixty-six and blustery-
(May gray has not arrived)
I read the latest Poetry issue,
origami ideas sent on paper planes
just out from Australia-al-
though printed in Chicago-
we pro-prose a die-a-log
through belles lettres.

After reading up on down under
I wondered-This Issue-
why more pictures than poetry-
Not really-but all I see, in imagery are
Faces
posing for poetry
Is it the mirror effect; akin to the water,
that made the artists smiles up-side-down-
And those scowls, sneers, poor-trait(s),
of some smirks where the mysterious
pretends to con-de-ceive perceptions
about Aussie affability.

Mutually masterful,
silence at the end, asks
for reciprocation, promotion,
looking for-word-one way to say
likeness, not-like-us, writer-ly
soft and polished up, be-spectacled
and dis-taught by degrees-
A-B-original-not left out back
in voluminous r-evolution.



Feature image art by Peter Purves Smith, Kangaroo hunt c. 1938 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Neighbor-He Covet-Us

He said, Grass Grows Best

where you wiped away the wood

so the Sun could see.

Image By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Backwash

-Fulfillment fills up-
-Meaning is made on purpose-
...re-turns investment



Photo By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Night words

Orb-sessed with moon-ness
stalking the same language: Flow
aglow in phases.



Painting by By Casimiro Sainz (1853-1898) (Pinterest) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Buried castles

Hind cloak and dagger you poise to guard thee
And conceal thy truest strength in mask'd
provocation! Lo' er thy weaponry
in defense against poison'd darts unseen
And penetrate those crystal streams, shatter'd
baubles by sounds may smash back to thine own
conscious fortress upheld on stilts aloft
none too far for arrows thrown in spite
to carry venomous signs of violence
symbolic gestures we propose to one
exchanging vengeance in our vows to keep
symbolic peices, armaments left and l
of leaves fallen-pollen armies make charge-
And stark violets by lillies  mark'd on graves.



This is an attempt at playing with Shakespeare's Sonnet LXVII.


Image By Wikisense (Own work) Scaligero castle[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Imagine in Nation

What doesn't ask
doesn't care.
There it
has been said,
did you know
I care?
We are in War and Love
above all else
I dwell in neither possibility
but probability
namely the art of science
or the scientific artist
these are the best of We
wherein domain and abstain
are eminently plausible
coextensively
if it has feathers and quarks
respective of space
and time to think of asking
who cares?


Image of painting By Ernst Karl Georg Zimmermann (1852-1901) (Dorotheum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sky scrapes

contrails drew all day
as one would fade, another blade
cutting in on blue, gilt by sun
without a red handle
on it to be seen

what chalky lesson
is trying to be relayed
that the entire sky should
altruistically accommodate
and become frayed to mineral slate
from all points of you

grey matter made of our machinated arts...
and those parts of paths remain staining royalty
bleeding lines out
ward, the cons alibi
covering for clouds
on a crystal eyes day.



Image by By Willow2012 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

A-flow-T

It was up-side-down-which
is not up There
is no up-any-way
that the dhow
knew the way the wind blew
and grabbed it as the how
to get There
the Tao
and even keel held bronze pins in place
on the starboard to cease and assist
sunken ships weight and wait
with least resistance finding that
flow
feels easy like you know
down pat what is
up
either way anyway
if you don't flow
with it
you'll never know
smooth sailing up-on destiny's dhow.




Image of painting by By Maxwell, Donald [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The writing in dust on mirrors

They lied
              all along
They think
              they were lying
(to them-selves)
               it showed through
eventually
wear and tear:
tears and wears

feeble few
who knew
               the lies were untrue
and said
(to them-selves)
                it was naturally so,
unfolding
upholding
For now
                 yet I know
the decay
                 eating away
Bones and Memories
(buried)
Stones and Sticks
(thrown)
                  shatter glass houses
and mirrors
reflecting angel dust
                                 and cobwebs
clouding what could never become
(the whole truth)
after blowing
                   living a life
being numb,
breathing evil wind
it's too late-
                   nevermind.



Image by By עירא (own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Creative Process by e.e. cummings 1 and 2 (plus 5)

                    

1.

Of my

Soul a street is:

Preternatural Pic-

abian tricktrickclickflidk-er

garner

of starfish Picasso

thrombosis trees

hit

my soul

repairs herself with

Prioress of Shari mind

and Matisse rhythms

to juggle Kandinsky gold-exchange-standard

away from the grind gifted

muscles of Cèzanne’s

logic

          Oho.

           A streamer

There is

where stramineous  birds     purr

2.

Picasso

you give us Things

which

bulbous: grunting lungs pumped fulgurate of Shari They mind

you make us shriek

presents always

shut in the sump screech of

simplicity

(out of the

bizarre unbolted

Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes

or

between squeals of

Nothing grabbed with circuit breaker shrieking tiger-eye

solicitation screams whisper.)

Lumberman of the Distillation

your brain’s

axe only chops hued inherent

Trees of Ego, from

whose living and bifoliate

bodies lopped

of every

preternatural

you hew form true time

The above two poems originally composed by e.e. cummings have been given the 5 up adjective treatment whereby each original adjective is replaced by the preceding 5th word in the dictionary. Normally this is a 7-up process but I like the number 5 better. 

Image of painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Yellow-red-blue, c. 1925 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Poet's Advice by e.e. cummings

A poet is
somebody who feels,
& who expresses his feelings
                                                -through words.
This may sound easy. It isn't.
A lot of people think
or believe
or know
they feel-
but that is
thinking or believing or knowing;
not feeling.
And poetry is
feeling-
not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think
or believe or know,
but not a single human being can be taught
to feel.

Why?
Because whenever you think
or you believe or you know,
you're a lot of other people:
but the moment you feel,
you're nobody-
but-yourself-
in a world which is doing its best,
night and day,
to make you everybody else-
means to fight the hardest battle,
which any human being can fight;
and never stop fighting.
As for expressing
nobody-but-yourself-
in words,
that means working just a little harder
than anybody
who isn't a poet
can possibly imagine.

Why?
Because nothing is quite as easy as using words
like somebody else.
We
      all of us
                     do exactly this
                                          nearly all of the time-
and whenever
We
      do it,
We
     are not
poets.

If,
at the end of your first ten or fifteen years
of fighting and working and feeling,
you find
you've written
                         one line
                         of one poem,
you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is:
do something easy,
like learning how to blow up the world-
unless you're not only willing,
                                                 but glad,
to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal?
                                         It isn't.
It's the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so
I feel.


The above text has been reformatted from the original version by e.e. cummings, this passage was included in the introduction (xi-xii) for the book, "A Critical Path" by R. Buckminster Fuller.


Image of painting by Unknown Pandora's Box, via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. 

A-part of some-thing

As though we needed to be told
-a-gain-
As if it were common
to occur
-again-
As it had been shown, all-
ready through
peopled holes-where keys go-
-inside-
These-black holes-out of space
and time constraint, locked
in-side-eternity
carrying more nothing
than you have seen
before.

Memory serves experience,
and kneels-
As though we've demanded
reverence, deliverance, pittance, per-
chance for-getting minute (s)paces
that take Us-
off tracks, on trips and
slips through slick perception
again, inside, before,
it occurs, as though suddenly
standing still under falling stars-
as if-then
you remember
Being-There.

You are merely a part of nature;
You are not altogether
apart from nature.
Everything was bound
to occur
any-way, naturally.
As though we needed to re-
member.




Image of painting by Theodore Clement Steele, c. 1887 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring cleaning

It was eighty degrees in April,
calamities abounding on fractured plates,
like earthquakes
and the old lady
wearing a black tank top, her arms propped on her knees,
sits on a curb
outside the white medical office
with her frizzy white hair
clenched in her hands...
and she quakes quietly,
her skin ripples in the white noon light.
Mexican fan palms crackling in the white hot breeze
seem to say
just another day in paradise.
The pollen has fallen,
she could smell it in the air
while dripping salt water on the blacktop.




Image of painting by By Carl Heuser (1827-1892) (Bonhams) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mining Stars (from here)

The President said
plutonium supplies
were good in the pits.
I wondered what it meant-
so I dug 963 feet
below the surface
seeking that sinking
heavy metal, heaving
twice its weight in gold,
yet primeval and silvery-
precious.

First made by supernovae,
naturally stardust,
radioactively broadcast
its position
through in the universe
-this one
time
expansion.

Discovered in Berkley,
in a February-
back then, 75 years ago, by a Glenn
Seaborg-not a Cyborg,
who then sent it to Los Alamos
in another February
for further detonation
and investigation
of astronomic instability.

With seven crystallographic phases
it elementary amazes scientists
in its fractalized dynamic destinies.
With differing densities, quite capably
able to decimate cities,
by morphing its own mass;
molten, hyper-reactive,
subject to spontaneous ignition,
irradiated with vaporous
breath, like making plus
molecules
ad-here
plutonic at the core.

Mass casualties of the atomic age
Man as kin, or mannequins staged
as markers amongst
the desert blooms
carbon footprints on the floral carpet
show we were here
in Plutonic Purgatory
hunting and gathering
wishing upon stars and
digging up disasters
in the diabolical desert
seeking forgiveness
in a cactus bloom.



Image of butterfly on desert bloom of zinnia By Mike Howard, BLM New Mexico State Office Botanist [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Twelve-Thirty (12:30)

1 o'clock

Atmosphere insists itself

autocratically outside the lines.

Cold-blooded,

the reptile, a racketeer of ends denies inclusion

by magnitude of malice, patents pend on the Platypus.

The 21^st question,

What is shod and tastes like magnesium?

2 o'clock

Ring the cymbalism;

Reverberating amplifier,

a muffled box,

caulking thoughts with expansive foam

sealed door of hostility.

Inside the tank, a goblet and gimlet-

Meeting drunk.

3 o'clock

In a position, in position, to posit-

Impossible, made

For Hand Use-

Heretofore-

Be Fore we knew for

Reduce the cost on cutting corners -of a box,

Dyeing and finishing done.

4 o'clock

Appeal and appear, steal and pretend, forthwith

under arbors twines loving affection.

In him, cinnamon, sin a hymn,

my pleasure frontage blooms

in thou fruitful delight-

Behold!

The Glacier Garden melts itself.

5 o'clock (shadow)

A tour of the mast-head-quarters with the devil as a guide reveals

Below the belt of venus in abasement where the insubordinates

Are on lunch, they heard like cattle hay was coming their way

You sea things were going swell in hell

Until the little bird heard about another word “alee” says he

In the front row, tornadoes blow down tornado row and hurricanes stain souvenirs

Stubs with acetous rain, recycled, in epicycles.

6 o'clock (rocks)

The Apocalypse is a place, not just a disaster.

I was relieved to learn the ambulance only took a couple minutes.

The length of her body,

I see a contorted creature, lays in the dirt

Nonsense, Get Up the army man self-combusts, blonde dirt

Increments come at all intervals and in between

Fret and not yet, creatures, we wait. 

7 o'clock

 Lolly gagging a long nettles together

The seams were connected bisymmetry

The appearance of disparity,

Between butterfly and beast

Plants sap milk and wine

Sweat in the sweet fun sun

Lemonades liquor laughter.

8 o'clock

Free lemonade and bibles,

Their stand, bi-polarity

Inducement of concentrate,

unmixed lumps give it away

By Law and throughout the Dell

These comrade, are against a stand

Hypervigilance during the day.

9 o'clock

Relationships are board games, like Life, a Monopoly, losing marbles, and saying Sorry.

There are fact checkers and there are Clues for management that we are pupils

Learning how to move on a plane. The contract or instructions say anyone can play.

Numero Uno y Dos Pasos over, a revolver, in the library. 

The clock points, lightening goes out.

Starting a new game starting new winners and losers of brassiere-women’s lib. 

10 o'clock

Putting on the big shoes we know

We are not ready for the added weight

My mother said she found me

Eating butter from the tub,

Of course it was just an anecdote

For the glory of glib

Like she did with her other belongings

In the toy chest, listening to my Bohemian rhapsody.

11 o'clock

Solitude sealed, enveloped in a moment.

An epistle declares a confession where virtue

is undeliverable, an encoded will

and testament in pulp.

The banner blares aggression

in the steel drum metropolis,

abdicating lyrics and lines

Mid-night

The party commences at six o’clock 
that was all then again

steel stringed blisters fester still

building pressure the pistons count to 

30
Time...................unable to heal......in such a short...day.

Image of painting by Paul Klee [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (Asiatische Gaukler. Dated '1919 150).

*The title of this poem 12:30, refers to the 30/30 Poetry challenge of April writing thirty poems in thirty days. This is 12, and all I will be doing (maybe) since I found it to feel stilting, discouraging and artificially contrived some days, although it is an interesting undertaking indeed. I used 7 words from the poetry generator designed by Robert Peake, a talented poet and technical wizard. 

Deep breathing lessons

In a fit of (out)rage-

directed at self-

via repeat rejections

and the subsequent dejection

received-

I could only see (in the) red.

The message was loud and clear, I fear

they all might be right and

I almost entertained

a harebrained

nasty notion, deranged desperate thought

that I could spend my days in drudgery

earning regular poor money

working for someone else’s benefit(s)-

Then I remembered 

that doesn’t work-for me

though it would make some others

(beyond) happy-it'd be

at my expense,hence,  I’d be in debt, 

lacking value, 

inherently strangled spiritually.

And after a moment of light

reflection-

I can now breathe

asymptomatically.

Image of painting by Frederick Sandys, Love's shadow, 1867 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The man who cried False Alarm

Every morning this week

the neighbors car alarm has gone off-

beeping, blinking, blaring, whining, wailing-

in the darkest neighborhood of morn.

Parked across the street

it goes on and off for two full cycles,

at least,

someone is trying to snooze.

Already awake at that time,

I am still disturbed by the ruckus,

my tail feathers are ruffled,

and the worm has been scared off.

It could have been an accident-

if it wasn’t a recurrence.

And it could have been a real robbery,

since much sleep has been stolen

in our neighborhood.

Or perhaps it's petty theft-

left bereft of quiescent courtesy...

Likely, a case of false alarm was set

to scare the wolves away, 

(the wrong) buttons have been pushed-

not all alarms work the same. 


Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons. The second jungle book., 1895.

Pequeño Sueño

Like waking...
When the material world
flashes its things, solid as snapshots;
clock, window, truck, cat, plumbing,
stretch toes, sigh deeply, lay, sheets,
sweat, stir. It comes. Solid. Heavy and Material.
You've fallen awake. In the thick of It.
Exit bed, feet float, glide along, smooth tile
and enter your dream…world.
The motions-you move through-
seeking any signs of a new day.
Yes, this is all too familiar.
Here you are again.
And then you realize, rationalize;
a dream is to pretend. I pretend
Practicing the motions
with a lingering notion
nothing you do is new.
All that you think and say
was there before you.
This is no nightmare, but awakening
is scary. It is your secret
when you weep-while you smile.
Playing your part, stage set,
cast into type, lost into words
you've memorized
but have no idea
how they got there
and seem suddenly, today

something new,
or just acted out

by the other 

dreaming You...

Composed 12/3/15
Image of painting by József Borsos, The Artists Dream (The Little Painter), 1851 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mid-April 2016

I hear but cannot see
                            coming from behind me
I go on reading
                           like this
Anyway,
                           I hear
                           (in a deep voice)
"Cuz 'nigger' is a weird word-'
                            "Yeah-yeah-yeah, I mean..." squeaks
                              another
And I look up to see
                            a preppy young black teen
accompanied by two of his friends
                           (a fast-talking Filipino
                           and a shy brunette, buried in her phone.)

The black youth is pushing a Diamondback,
                            (not the snake, the bicycle)
wears square-rimmed glasses, his hair is tightly trimmed.

Seagulls bitch and moan in the back-ground tarmac
bickering over scraps
                            (maybe sushi)
in the adjacent high school parking lot atop the hill
                             over-looking the ocean
(a
ffluent
beach town.)
He looks over
                              to the sea,
                              sighs and says,
"To me, it just means 'slave'"
They have moved on.




Image credit USMC [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ahora, Flora

Beat-up pick-up
sideboard, plywood
PVC poles hold hoes
and Co. land-scrapers
dirt brown men
burlap bags bulge bulk
fronds flap, waving bye
bougainvillea leaves
the wind in its wake
vined venomous snakes
coil and toil
pushing pedals,
nipped at the bud
the garden view
flowers wild
migrant faces
in full bloom.



Image By Unknown or not provided, taken on California Hwy. c. 1935 (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In essence

Pinch and tart, sweetly smell in-
Culling season has begun!

Spring is loaded,
its arsenal of flower power
and the annual dramatic
pallette astounds
against the brown subdues earth,
set under stoic grey skies.

The lions purr thunder
the hunters in Heaven
have scared the lamb
to May.

Humans gather
en masse
genocide, green stalks
with showy tops
limp headed bodies lain
and strewn in pot-pourri

Incensed
with Pride!
our Kill!

Boquet'd
mantled and displayed,
propped and posed, pretty
for (the) sake of a seasonal
mild medicinal redolence bliss...snip.




Image by János Thorma [Public domain], Girl picking flowers in a red coat c. 1930, via Wikimedia Commons.

Nerve-us

Nobody has the nerve

to go against all odds

even when winning
If
certain

is only the beginning

and defeat is destined
postdated

(sometime too soon)

in the end-

before it all starts

to get really good,

would you try
to be
Brave?

Image of painting by Alfred Stevens [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Details & History: The Psyché (My Studio)
Trained in Brussels, Stevens finished his studies in Paris and made his career there. During the Second Empire (1852–70), he pioneered and perfected the domestic interior scene, which the Impressionists then adopted. He was inspired by Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch and often painted on wood panel. This painting, which once belonged to the poet Robert de Montesquiou, is one of several by Stevens of his studio with a model and sometimes the artist; its title refers to the mirror at the left. A full-length mirror with chassis was invented in the late eighteenth century and took its name, psyché, from the legend of Cupid and ­Psyche, a story that thematizes looking. Yet this is not an actual psyché but an easel with a mirror where the canvas would normally be, an analogue to a psyché suggesting that art is a reflection of life. A cloth partially covers the mirror, hiding the reflections of the studio. Focus instead is on the model, who may have interrupted her posing session to peer around the edge of the mirror, which reflects her head and hand. The artist hints at his own presence with the cigarette butt, ash, and match in the lower right corner. Nearby struts a small parrot, seemingly a reference to art’s mimetic function. The backs of canvases and portfolios of prints or drawings represent some of Stevens’s working materials. On a chair are Japanese prints, reminders of his love of objects and collecting; with his friends the Goncourt Brothers, Bracquemond, and Whistler, he was one of the earliest collectors of Japanese art in Paris. Among the small paintings on the wall is a sketch for his Salon picture What They Call Vagrancy (1854; Musée d’Orsay), a picture of social protest.

Cross-polination

untouched by light-yet-
feels its warmth and reaches out-
made bigger by desire-
hard wood, hard-ly virgin
forests for the feral trees-
wild in her-ness, promiscuous
phallacy, the protection
of innocence, guarded in a sense-
an essence burgeoning out-
no reason to celibate...




Image by By Jon Sullivan (Public-domain-image.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Going under (and more fiend)

Butchers and Doctors wear white

                            Not a coincidence, as an instance

Compressed into one

                             Short year

A long time came

                            For firsts

First, the surgeons came

                             With their sharp degrees

Separation of mind body with a scalpel

Focus

The first born son sacrificed

                              Before he drive-engine trouble-

Organ (ically) broken down-the gall to take what is not theirs

And call it Care!

And there-

                               A body splayed out, below the deck

in dirt, porce-lain shards,

                              grey hair tinged with red-

Wood dust, in the evening wind awaits an ambulance to pick up the pieces

Of her shattered-shot-

                               From the hip, and arms, appen-

Dages give out

Then man who stepped in

                               to hold me up began to limp,

holding up by the aide of a cane

sugar-sweetie-honey-pie-my

dear, do not fear the knife, like love, the pain relieves

                             no-thing, pointedly parts need replacement

screws, pins, rods,

a lit fusing of ore,

medicinal musing on more-phine

saline flushes and demoralizing blush

                            like blood in cheek

is thicker than water.

A thirsty surgeon, a risen vampire, a hardware engineer,

Condensed in one (anti)body here in one year, 

                            Inoculating with sticks and stones. 

Image by Jan Sanders van Hemessen [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.