Erosion of her brain
made her something new
but new
is not always shiny
new
can be angry
new
can be dangerous
new
can be broken
new
can break you
and her
and us

No going back to the womb
it isn’t the same home
I wonder
would she grow me differently
with her new brain?
maybe she’d grow a daughter
who knew
who her mother was
with brain cancer.

"Forgive us," We chant.  

they're only words that we've inherited
an outline we've decided
history's absurd parameters
the language we've provided
as if trust in our alignment
to a violent set of precepts can be merited.

     Civil Culture?

It's a culture of the owner
simple values we've inducted
printing match sticks out of loners
when the world is deconstructed
do you measure up or fold it
you reduce the world to numbers
blew the lid off feuds abundance
knew the billionaires would fund it

     What's it mean?

Doesn't matter.
it's a remnant
not a battle.
don't dissect it
never tattle
golden goose
baby rattle

stolen goods
failing castle
swollen foot
gravy saddle
smoke and soot
pale and fragile
cut the fruit
use a scalpel.    

     This is...

     Strange fruit.

Every touch is a devotion,
every soft phrase a prayer
to life, to continue living.

A nightingale, a dove
gowned in heavenly blue
a ministering survival chant.

Thank you
and double checks
are abundant.

They minister
consistent kindness
for they live
among the blasted.  

There is no sniping,
no rivalries,
just respect and support.

They are special.
They are there by choice.
They work double shifts  
or come in on short staff days.

The cancer center has regular hours
No Nights.  No weekends.
Burn out it is low.  Effort is high.

Their patients are a pretty grateful lot,
so their compassion comes easily
from the first tuck to the last.  

The nurse knows
some will sleep
and some will awake.

Everyone dies,
but today they
will  be spared,

for tomorrow
is nearly far off
in the rising sun light.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame's aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.


The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there's no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.

The phone goes round and round.
What could this all mean?
And at two o’clock in the morning, really what could dad need right now?
One by one, I see the faces drop.
And the phone goes round and round.

Why won’t they let me talk to him next?
Why won’t they just tell me what’s going on so I can go back to bed?
Why are they all looking at me like that, with fear and worry behind glazed eyes?
Why will no one answer my questions?
And the phone goes round and round.

Oh dear god, just one person away.
I have my guesses as to what this is.
I’m crying already and the phone hasn’t even come to me yet.
The list of people who I think might be it.
Who might be gone.
And the phone passes to me.

Hello?
‘Cancer’
And just like that my life was flipped.
The world fades,
As I pass out from crying too hard.
And the phone goes round and round.

It was worse for me,
Watching someone die is loads worse than them just being dead.
You see them suffer and you see their pain.
It becomes so hard to look,
Because you become too scared to see the death.
And I remember the phone going round and round.

How could it be him?
So strong, so brave, so gallant,
Struck down by cancer.
The one person that never ran through my head,
When I listed people who I expected died.
That awful phone went round and round.

When my time came, a month later,
I had so much to say,
Just in case I never saw him again.
I love you, you’re doing great, keep fighting…
Please.
That awful phone went round and round.
The problem was that I never said anything.
It was too hard to see the pain you were trying to hide,
But I saw it, and couldn’t see past,
So when it was time to leave, I said my love,
Banking on the fact that he’d be there for Christmas.
That awful phone went round and round.

Six months later, the phone came out again.
And my tears fell, last again to get the phone.
I’ll never see him again.
It’s hard to remember that he’s not in pain anymore,
When you see that awful phone going round and round.