my first post as a mother.
 I watched my dad suffer from a gut-wrenching disease called Pulmonary Fibrosis. There is no known cure and few people have heard about it unless they've known someone personally who has suffered from it. On February 5, 2018, I lost an irreplaceable figure in my life, my sweet dad. Yet knowing there is potential to help others by donating money for research helps funnel the pain of losing someone so important to me.
Please click on this link for more info about my dad and ways you can help. there are things to be done,
they are left doing. rooted in action. stereo on pause, a slow-cooked response. bare hands waving side by side. she looks like one of those cowgirls you’d see
hanging outside the rodeo with mud on her paws and a few broken teeth, her hair ginger like sunshine gone stale. bless her haggard, ugly heart cowgirl outside the rodeo stood there for show and bent down low drinking water with her blood in it. a socket sewn shut where her eye used to be round as a dime for the pinball machine another one lost, tossed into the ring a small price for your entertainment. i saw you outside a bar in atlanta,
fuckin’ with a broken bike chain. you were sitting on the curb, with the stern face of a surgeon adjusting the metal link with precision. i imagine you looked like that when you used to do tattoos in the town we used to live in further south, where one girl had your name on her thigh. nobody round here like him anymore, she’d sigh before lifting her skirt even higher. it’d been a decade at least since we last spoke but i’d heard about the snakes. took a seat on the curb with the nerve to ask you okay? since they almost took your life some years before. you laughed, said sure, then showed me the scars ridden up and down your leg. with a grin on your face you said they came like punches before you flatlined twice in the hospital bed you lay in for months, however long it took to get the taste of metal out of your mouth. maybe that’s what venom tastes like? it’s a shame that girl with your name on her thigh wasn’t lurking around while you were curled on the ground, entering a state of paralysis. she had a big mouth, i’m sure she would’ve bent down to suck the poison right out and now it’d be her kidneys on the fritz instead. but what a waste of perfectly good venom to serve a soul like oil on wheels-- you skipped town after you healed yet she lives down there still, dripping tears into her beer and rippling her reflection on how life isn’t fair, it just isn’t i’ve seen your art on the cartoon network, saw you on the front page of the ajc with gloves on your tattooed hands, holding jim henson’s original creation with the same grin on your face when you were showing me your scars outside that bar in atlanta.
shame on you, dr mario
you never cured cancer you only gave us fever and chills you were why we failed accounting and have no pharmacology skills instead of a real doctor you were a lady madonna pink and blue capsules thrown like confetti, that contagious ditty playing in the background while feeding a blue monster person made better by a cute funny cartoon. at first it was hard, but then it was easy ‘i am saving lives,’ you told everybody in your white paper suit and brown clunky shoes oh nelly, we were all scared of those monsters ‘hahaha,’ went the dancing virus that i came down with at an early age, mastering each stage till i was cured sweatpants,
couch cushions & a flatscreen. word (for i can't complain)  my poetry fuckin sucks at this time of night
which is a damn shame because now's when i wish i was doing something other than staring at my feet and counting sheep or saying grace underneath the sheets i've let so many people down and i know it. i don't feel good about it yet i don't let myself think about them till now when their faces are painted on the ceiling with no signs of fading soon. go away please my poetry is shit now because i suffer less than i used to insomnia being the worst which is good, i guess don't know i'd have it the other way around supposed i'm pleased to say i've had it both and this side's simpler shitty poetry's not the worst unspeakable crime we're all guilty of it from time to time right right?  the moon is going boss-eyed, looking after both of us
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lawd knows i like to ramble. thanks for reading.
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