Support group

They do not have your heart in their mind.

They try to make you feel uncomfortable in your skin.

They throw off your gait, trip your pace, trying to get ahead of you.

They point, they name, they poke and filet.

They see you in their way.

They say to fare is too fair for you, they say you’re okay-for a stepping stool.

They take steps out of their way to point you in the wrong direction.

They are the unreliable narrator; they are the antagonists of Serendipity.

They can’t hear you over the crowd in their head. All in their Fanclub look the same.
They can’t see you in their reflection.

They seek beauty in resemblances; they do not see the artistry in the anomaly.

They make the marinade of maliciousness you soak up, you are tenderized by lies.

They will never stop trying to make you stop trying.
They won't admit they'd wish you'd quit.

Image of painting by Edvard Munch [Public domain], 1907-Jealousy via Wikimedia Commons.

Oct-1-en-3-one (The smell of blood)

You know the taste of your own blood-
You remember you are made mortal-
You reminisce, ruminate in your recipe-
Notes you only know.................................
Those little letters in a vial;
coded coagulation's in combinations
of more than A O B and sometimes Y,
negatives and positives make a clot...........
...a conspiracy of hematology....................
the platelets are empty and white say
Editors of assemblage, connoisseurs of flow...
-Professors of Anatomy-
Who stick it to you, bleed you out, dry to the bone,
just as they always have, herding en mass-
Ewe, the sacrificial lamb.................................

Blood banks built on quicksand
distributing to the needy.

Even today, the cast off sprays the same;
luminol illuminating outcasts-
no doubt, not good enough
to save a life, strategic
in a pinch, a gash gushing................................
anemia, academia-
non-hemocyanin, un-blue-
contaminated, un-oxygenated, discarded
in the slush pile.................................................
There will always be more
able bodies, anti-bodies, veins to tap,
an aortic (Au(ction) gold mine..........................
We are blood letting machines-
We give and take life in sips-
We can taste (Fe(ar) our iron-
Will drained-
We work up to sap-
slowly................................................................
only to give it away for free
Keeping the leeches alive.

Most pungent when fresh, bread and newspapers drop in value proportional to their scent of newness.

Image By No 1 Army Film & Photographic Unit, Chetwyn (Sgt) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hear I am

You who hear
                   here
Are special
            dangerous
You know
           hide
Hidden messages
                 uncoded
It is a gift
          a curse
You have learned
                   caught
Don't ask
            don't tell
Why you
                 or me
Our purpose
                  here
                         unclear
                                     unfolds
grows with tempered age
                                    we wane
                                                away
Time waits for none-no time
left alone
                   with you
I'll never be
All the secret words
I write
                   for you.


Image of painting By Val Prinsep [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Cinderella, c. 1880.

An artistic alliance, long ago, in a land far away...

nostalgic for the days I don't remember

way back when
poets and painters blended and mixed their mediums

mingling their reds and blacks blood brothers on white

walls paper words that made the colors stand up, shout out, jump and dance
in the aesthetic lyceum 

lit up by the spotlight of your gaze
tracing the illuminated lyrical lines
longing for your lips

that fuse, melt, and ooze from one dimension to all, in all

in alchemical attraction

of painters and poets, pictures smeared with words,

sounds like music,
sharing shapes in space

is art made anew

(reenvisioned)

(commissioned)

(juxtapositioned)

I never see

this artistic endeavor

together today, so sad to say

evermore I miss those olden days

that I've only felt in poems or paintings

when the love of artistry

met eye to I...

Once upon a time

partners in poetic crime.

Image By Władysław Roguski 1890-1940 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Slated invocation

Oh steely sky, you do not care

that I need rain today.

Did I miss the vote?

I don't count; I have no say

-either way-

only stoics wear grey

every day

and call it Fair. 

Sword fight

Maybe it was miscommunication
I did not like the surgeon
he smelled my repugnance-
I could tell
he did not like me either
his contempt was visible-
he showed it well.

I admit-
I didn't understand-
why he chose his profession
And he would not comprehend
my craft,  the art of confession
his speaking in tongues
jargon of gibberish
made my vivacious vernacular
sound smoothly spectacular

our inept oral interchange,
vacuous verbal exchange,
was an outer-species communication
comprehension lost in each others translation

I know
I should probably apologize
for stepping on his big toes
but that is the least of his woes
when a patient is just as wise
(and says so)

I suppose
I should concede
we are seldom both in dire need
And,
I confess, we do the same thing
I guess, rip people's guts out
trying to save their life...
I use a pen,
he prefers the knife.



Image by David Teniers the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, a malicious surgeon extracting stones from a grima.

Threadbare Thingamajig

My container shows utility,
this for that;
hold this, carry me
like so and so-
Judging, by every day use
where I am thin
I am most transparent
all that you see through me
resists certain obscurity
You can clearly see
the stiff armored patches,
plates stacked precariously
porcelain worn and torn by utensils
in an empty cupboard.
I have no spares for repairs,
no double duty reinforcements
to protect and deflect the pointed
poisoned arrows aimed
at my limited capacity
for containing my
ultimate futility
I guess-
I don't know how this thing works.


Image By Sarah777 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, described as a device for dunking scholars (a.k.a. Thingy Dunker).