Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back There's a virus in the air, but I can't see it. People are dying around me, but I can't save them. There are spikes pierced in my back, spasms, but I can't touch them. Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles, I covet in my prayers. I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still. Nails impaled, I bleed hourly, Jesus on that cross. Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92, told me, "getting old isn't for sissies." I didn't believe her-- until the first mimic words out of "Kipper" my new parakeet's mouth, sitting in his cage alone were "Daddy, it's not easy being green." Leaves in December Leaves, a few stragglers in December, just before Christmas, some nailed down crabby to ground frost, some crackled by the bite of nasty wind tones. Some saved from the matchstick that failed to light. Some saved from the rake by a forgetful gardener. For these few freedom dancers left to struggle with the bitterness: wind dancers wind dancers move you are frigid bodies shaking like icicles hovering but a jiffy in the sky, kind of sympathetic to the seasons, reluctant to permanently go, rustic, not much time more to play. Group Therapy Wind chimes. It’s going to rain tonight, thunder. I’m going to lead the group tonight talking about Rational Emotive Therapy, belief challenges thought change, Dr. Albert Ellis. I’m a hero in my self-worship, self-infused patient of my pain, thoughtful, probabilistic atheism with a slant toward Jesus in private. Rules roll gently creeping through my body with arthritis a hint of mental pain. Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck, writing this poem, late as usual. It’s going to rain, thunder heavy tonight. Fiction Girl |
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