“Coleslaw Dignity,” “a young piece,” “For Sunday”

When I left you alone at night after three it was I think

The storybook moment and perfect ending: three dead

Maji dropping from the sky bounce off clouds. Spiritless

We disappear within the screams, the laughter; Pro-

Publica gone DOA. I’m almost nauseous having thought

Of the way we cook with human flaw; coleslaw dignity.

...and in 45 days I get rear-ended twice so I’m thinking

That 47 does not have this much power to what the fuck

All. What have I done? I blame phones for all maladies,

Malfeasance, misappropriation. You know who I am.

I even hate the wife, brother and the mother, the dogs,

The MiL, the employer, the neurologist with aplomb.

I dislike my neighbors, my city, the lakes I can still

Swim in and the parks where skulls get cracked up.

I must admit these last 45 felt as though the fix were

In, like it was my time to be uncomfortable and tired.

If I could swallow from your cup, keep it down, believe

Any screed bouncing out a presidential pen; nah I won’t.

Taps. Clean clear bell tone. Funeral completion. Sell

The national soul, say we are dreaming...of falling...

Long past points of no return

or no going back

And past due and nearly past

an expiration date...of course

I’m taking about the disease.

My multiple sclerosis.

Not a pleasant topic...as if it

ever were...but we – me - are

further in this engagement...

nothing has completely stopped

that I know...one cannot peek

internally simply...axons

with ‘closed signs’ or ‘under

repair’ pictograms

     ...a visceral distinction

         and outright falsehoods...

a place wherein my lability

can disorder more salt and

tear, my tears of happy discomfort,

of past apprehension

and of absolute connection.

No shame. I too am having a sexy

human experience. I am going

through the shit and I could not recall

how to spell sclerosis a moment

ago, how to kiss you goodnight

without causing either of us pain.

I worry about the back yard;

preparing for the fall back of soil,

of knees, the skin of cut resistant

gloves and this desire for portraits

of my yard as a young piece of artist...

You did not jot at all yesterday, what with chores

and thoughts of China…though not politically or

economically. Cherry Blossom Festival. Sakura Mochi.

Coffee and table color. Shredding - a purge of famines.

Blue lips re-emerge buttoned with damaged

skin after hibernating. Milk pumps and cobwebs

blown off lids. Offer abundance

for dogs and lace hooked by a line. Letters

regarding money not sought. Stray currents from

a monitor. Food needs and while shredding pauses

for the motor to cool, the masking of identities

continues. Beds remake themselves. Lunch cannot

wait for thaws and miscues with a pot of water, a

cutting board of garlic, carelessness.