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
couch cushions & a flatscreen.
(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.
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
lawd knows i like to ramble. thanks for reading.
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