Warning: Shit abounds.

Let me tell you, I can’t find
shit. Ok, I’ve found shit,
I remember the joke
what’s warm and brown
and crawls up your leg~
homesick shit. Should have
told that to the furious nurse
when I was lying in mine, abjection
like Kristeva writes, Cast Off!
I may be. The ICU nurse was busy
shouting, saving my life.

People up to their elbows
in shit don’t wanna talk about it
so they told me. I’m too disturbed
to find the right application to show
you my dead mother’s journey by
using  a picture of Bartheleme’s
paperback cover of THE DEAD FATHER. Huh
 I am too disturbed to make things work, even
poems where I use a weightless word like “things”
when camera would be a better choice.

but must tell you with no knead to agree
with my brain’s tendency to walk off
the set in a furor with his own machinations, Huh
now there’s a word for you industrialists out there
machinations of the factory owner’s mind, ain’t it
fun to spell factory with fact when everybody knows[1]
the dice are loaded, but the pain in my hands in my joints
hurt me now and fur ever fur is gone, but wait, I’m still here.
Kristeva’s cat Kai rests on its carpeted pedestal
winks at me, claims a line of his own.

[1] Leonard Cohen


This entry was posted in Abject Alphabet (Fits and starts), ARCHIVES, Blog, My Daily Fog, My Life in Pieces, pain room blogish, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.

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