tilt-a-whirl owie


Protecting my soul, I close my eyes in the face of new pain centers,
strip naked, press my back into the bed of nails wincing never mind,
just know this, every-time I get up, God pulls another Jenga block, head nuns study me wobbling. My feet cobbled with more nails
than Jesus’s on the cross. It’s true you hate to watch, cross the street
rather than be seen walking with this cripple. Honesty is important
you said, but you lied anyway, I imagine, to save my feelings. In my feet honestly dearie, I have none. But thanks for the gelato.

I close my eyes protecting my soul, keep my blinds drawn to black,
nothing there either, static, flashes of neuropathic pain they warn you about
if you have amputation. I have the pain already, maybe the surgeon
could make it disappear like my left foot, all I want is a prosthetic.
“I can walk!” I want to shout, now that would be a game for a healer’s visit
to the city, throwing away my crutch. But for now, the circus, the freak-show
+ the strongman slamming the sledgehammer on the lever of the high-striker
the steel puck rippling up every vertebrae before ringing the bell in my brain.

“Life is a carnival
believe it or not
life is a carnival;
two bits a shot.”
– Robbie Robertson



[1] A red herring this, it refers as much to Bahktin’s theory of the Carnivelesque, which refers back to Dionysius, and a lot of stuff  I can’t remember. 

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