Mine
My pain is pedestrian. My feet are killing me, though not my shoes like Robyn Sarah’s (Congrats by the way). The current poem is “Jimmy Bang’s No Shoe Blues,” Though there is another earlier poem called “Jimmy Bang’s Foot Sore Blues” but I’ll wait for a few rejections before I put these up on my site, believing it is considered publishing when it feels completely different to me. Regardless, my feet hurt, and why the hell should you care, and care enough to read about my chronic depression, osteoid surgeries, chronic pain in my feet and my arthritis riddled hands.
I’ll get back to you when I have an answer.
Yours
I’m reading some of your pain on some websites and Facebook, research I figure. Maybe some palliatives I haven’t tried, some alchemy to turn pain to art. I’ll get back to you when I find either. So far the alchemy I’ve seen has been in performance and in third party publication.
Others
This is where jokes won’t do, whether refugees or residential schools so poignantly spelled out on the pages of Rosanna Deerchild’s and Edna Moose’s Calling Down the Sky launched this month. Read it and weep, but Deerchild’s call to action when someone asked what “we” can do, was a simple and emphatic “Stop It!” then a plaintive “don’t hate me.”