"dialysis" poems
The porch bends beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.
At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.
I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.
But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.
He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.
This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.
Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh
No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.
Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and the Ghost Buffalo
that's been leading me
down it
all my life.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
This small green bear,
your name embroidered on its chest,
was never yours. It would have been
our Christmas gift to you,
had you lived a month longer.
The ones you would give
you had already bought,
wrapped, labelled -
thoughtful, organised
to the end,
to the bitter end.
We unwrapped them on the day,
smiled at your kindness,
wept at our loss.
Early Christmas gifts
that you had not organised,
that nobody could have anticipated,
went to strangers: your pancreas,
a life free from daily injections;
your kidneys, two lives free from dialysis;
your liver, divided, to a young girl
and an older lady, who would
quite simply have a life
they had almost given up hoping for.
Your heart, damaged by extended life-support,
not suitable for transplantation,
yielded its valves
to repair the damaged hearts of others.
Even bone and skin were harvested
for people you never knew.
That Christmas you gave hope
to so many people,
and to us the consolation
that they live on because of you,
and that you live on in them.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
A year and a half ago I was good a year and a half ago I was fine a year and a half ago I was in my prime a year and a half ago I was not thinking about dying but I guess everything change when a disease barge threw the door of your life and you start thinking will I live or die but I hiding the pain in my eyes as I look back at my life before all this I can just sit back and cry before the needle before the pain **** I guess after dialysis nothing will be the same
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
had a picture of dad on my nightstand
it fell not too long ago
but landed upright
atop his shoe shine box that I kept
its new position not precarious
I let it stay there
thought it was kinda fitting
a picture from his older years
taken in the kitchen
looking up into the camera
from the task at hand
peeling boiled potatoes
for potato salad
my potato peelin' pop
morning sun shine spot lights that picture
warm, smiling, reassuring
mom's back in ICU now
transferred to rehab with high hopes
bleeding, unresponsive
cardiac arrest en route back to ER
x-rays, CT scans
transfusions, blood draws, ventilator
endoscopy?
colonoscopy?
dialysis?
quality of life questions
the more I watch her
the more I wonder
How I wish pop could tell us what to do
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
Every morning I must slay a mighty rusted dragon. His jaws gape as he waits for me. I climb his belly slowly, but persistently. When I reach his mouth I throw myself in. I burst from his stomach and slide down his back and he lies with his wounds and waits for tomorrow. I will slay him again today. These dragons are everywhere, waiting to be destroyed every morning by commuters and diabetics and dialysis patients. We must grit our teeth as the needle pierces the skin or as the engine starts again. We take that bitter pill and emerge victorious. But to what end? The dragon will be waiting the following morning as he always has, as he always will. It is the curse of the modern man. Each day we will slay this dragon until one of us is too weak to fight.
But I know, too, that this dragon is necessary. He is the grain of salt in my morning that seasons the bike ride down his back. I have learned to enjoy riding through the rusted iron bridge that is his throat, and yes, even the climb I must endure to reach it. Each day I must slay this dragon. I must. It is for me that he exists, not the other way around. And I will slay him each day until I am struck by an automobile or die of a blood disease.
So when I rise tomorrow, I will look him in the eye and he will wink. And I’ll know that he is not just a hill capped with a rusted iron bridge. He is the plight of modern men. He is the eternal struggle that must be, else life would be tedium. and we need each other, him and I.
When I wake, I will rise and slay him again.
And again.
And again.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
without thunder.....
shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
s and r
are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e. γλωßα -
to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
yes, sroka / magpie...
crow / kruk / crux
or the shadow of Golgotha...
toward us: the darkened hour...
to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
Steady, pulsating drips
Form a cacophony of tiresome
Drifts of time
Winding down the twirls of
His paintbrush the trials of
Liquid resonance.
Pattern-less,
The degenerate.
Out of touch with reality,
The artist,
In shambles.
Dialysis.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
There is
steeped madness
atop mantle piece cliffs
as if
poised,
in reluctant certainty at our hot fate.
Somewhere,
in the steamy depths
of man’s mind, our mind
my mind
stews and perpetuates
fuming intent
eroding at the edges,
of life for what
it is and isn’t
or wont be for
future tenses and a
conceptualizing
intensity in a
place which hasn’t
ever been realized
or
even moved along a
narrow line
of directed discourse,
dictated dialysis:
deviation
from the center-ed
path
of righteous, heavenly
glory
of the gods,
in the clouds,
on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night.
For Retribution!
For Respiration!
For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights.
and on and on
were that they were
forever forward still.
But were still revisiting things
which were never seen
in re-wrought thought
I thought
I saw but not
because seeing isn't believing.
And believing isn’t anything really
but lengthy
listless lists
and heavy
habitual hope.
© 2011
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
Trodden and toxic with heavenly waters, this
the murkiest of hearts that badly needs dialysis
Rupturing them clean, like morning's fresh shower.
Across tables, drink affection acted out in bliss
With ice in the glass and garnished with flowers,
and trade all a black forest could have to behold,
For that glance so sincere, and a hand to hold.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 4:47 PM UTC
a brief confession:
until now,
i have written my best friend into a storybook heroine, untouchable
and our friendship one of puzzle pieces falling in place perfectly
i love her beyond words
and love makes you romanticize everything
but i want to show the truth
because incredibly, it is even more brilliant
sure, we have the happy story of meeting in summer camp, bonding over crafts and a shared love of books
and in most ways, what we have is simple and pure and obvious
but in all honesty, our true bond was not born in beauty or the sunlight
it was born ****** fighting, and dangling by its umbilical cord over a bottomless abyss
see, we were first stitched together in battle
opposite sides of a wound that drained us of tears and dark poetry
emptying pens stolen from a slate-eyed boy whose skin never seemed to be fully closed
we were surgery in a brightly lit, white-walled classroom
taking turns as his dialysis machine
until one day, we finally looked up
and realized he was stealing all our oxygen
on the homefront we were dissection victims,
perfectly preserved insides laid out for the world to see
so that no one would think to look for the secrets hidden beneath our sharp tongues
we were ***** donor and receptor,
and she gave me bone-marrow strength
in return for my rib-cage to cradle her overworked heart
both of us breathing heavily from the same pair of tired lungs
we were bandages on each other's wrists,
painfully tight tourniquets to keep our souls from leaking out with the blood
we were interlocked fingers between our deathbeds
and silence on either end of the telephone
too afraid to speak the truth aloud
but even more afraid of hanging up
instead letting our quietness drown out the silence
other times, we were barely contained sobs in a 2am voicemail
we were long periods of no contact
passive-aggressive silence
bottled anger that was too heavy to carry for long
over reasons we no longer remember
yes,
our connection was held together by bruised knuckles, scarred skin
but though it was often ugly and rough and messy
it also saved my life
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
The triazolam is draining out.
Seeping down a peptic route.
Antacids disintegrate the lining.
Pain leaves me pinning.
Drowning on pink.
Spat up in the sink.
This sickness is wearing me thin.
Unsafe in my own skin.
Prescribed relief in the form of cold sweats.
Unapproved medicine tested on pets.
The rainbow pillbox comes in a set.
Getting wealthy off of the net.
Anemic royalty.
Sipping on Pennyroyal Tea.
Taking a drive to San Andres.
Dinning on mixed sangrias.
Bummed for a hit.
Blown…spit.
Complexion grows yellow.
The cost of my mellow.
Prescribed relief in a hospital bed.
Deaf to kind words said.
Can’t escape the notion in my head.
Telling me I’m already dead.
Loss of focus.
These drugs are bogus.
Light gradually fades away.
Soiled underwear, the thing to stay.
Soul ripped and torn apart.
Taken away on a crash cart.
Transfusion first, dialysis later.
Lack of a pulse, huge deflator.
Prescribed relief in the form of cremation.
Ceremony held, not a single relation.
No will left as a last proclamation.
Assets absorbed by a forfeiture corporation.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
My dandelion boy is the kind
That hangs on by thin, grey seeds.
Growing on the lip of each day’s cliff,
My precariously-positioned 16-year-old leans.
He’s the kind that hangs on
By nothing more than breaths.
Amidst flowers born with all the right cells,
He just wants to be a normal kid.
What ruffles petals, pushes him,
And when their stems but bend,
He ends up broken.
My dandelion boy is the kind
That hangs on by dialysis and dreams.
The sun warms this high school junior,
But still, he only sleeps.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
As Heaven and Hell filled your glass you gave me the the gift of laughter and raised my spirits several times.
Those stories about a plethora of assess, wild crazed friends, and a hard painful life intrigued me for countless hours.
Never are you just a simple shade of black or white your always that insane drunk artist that mixes up the paint.
Your advice and experience taught me new colors that I would have never been able to imagine before.
Unlike me your a true writer that’s unaffected with the STD of being just a poet, but you still just might have the clap.
Your works are ****** great so don’t you EVER stop trying to get your stuff out to this twisted world……..
Because if you quit I will seriously be obligated to punch you and I know you’ll still be able to easily kick my ***
even though you probably broke your hip after you got out of your walker and unplugged your dialysis machine.
I’m not a mascochist (Unless I get a *** of cash or your a pretty Asian girl) so please for the love of god never make me do that, and hell I really like a lot you so I’d really prefer not to put a .38 special deep into your chest cavity.
Keep staying crazy you son of a ***** and although more than likely as your future attorney I’ll sure as hell stay busy,
but your my big brother and I ******* love you man so don’t you ever change.
P.S. Don’t hog on all of the good runoff ***** unless they are too chubby.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
I climb up onto the roof of your car,
take off my shirt, and howl at the moon.
And you look at me with those weird eyes.
I pawned all my stuff for those pretty flowers
that bloom inside me when youre around.
And that sticky spot on the bedspread,
that I lap up like sour milk.
And I will make you pure like me,
eat the garbage from your entrails,
put your blood in dialysis bags,
And I'll put on my seal skin and crawl under you,
but you will remain a skeleton,
my salt lick lover,
and we will make our bed on the banks of the river.
We’ll lay around and get drunk
and youll laugh at all my jokes
while tiny bugs gnaw at my feet.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 6:44 PM UTC
It's raining-- her
favorite short lived
season of Los Angeles.
Waves propagate.
It's all a messy
interference pattern
on our pool's surface
disturbed with memories,
tiny droplets, tears
from Savior's sky.
Perhaps it feels similar
to old emerald
Vietnam ponds, except
here the rain
doesn't go on for too long,
unless it's a Hemingway rain.
It makes me wonder
if it's not Monsoon
season yet. Our tiny pool
built for Valley deluge,
would flood faster
than any sandbags
could delude.
She never asked
how long to fight
just kept on walking
cooking and loving
until her heart grew
too weary.
In the end, three loops
around the swimming
pool in the rain is enough.
It's the same as walking
5K while doing dialysis.
She sits next to me
on our outdoor swing
chair, and smiles,
rested.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
You were a rock for us,
I saw you as a lifeless rock recently,
Emotions grappled my throat and tears rolled down like a stream,
An embodiment of warm radiant love, sleeping in dry ice.
You used to be sitting by the passenger seat,
When I took you for dialysis in the mornings,
Today you were sitting there too,
Except you were inside a ***
I had to do the final rites,
Seeing you in ashes and bones,
I realized about mortality and trivial matters,
Reciting for Lord Shiva to ensure you have the proper path above this earthly plane,
You left at 61, you had many more years in you I believe,
But you had fought and struggled long enough,
I hope we have done you justice,
I hope your soul is now at peace,
Flowing smoothly like the river,
The river where we scattered your mortal remains,
I’ll tell Lord Shiva to ensure you have a flowered path where your feet are no longer in pain,
On that path to your eternal rest, where you no longer need a wheelchair.
You were an exceptional wife, mum and woman,
A strong individual for every single day of it,
You have not cooked in a long time but I'd always remember the smell of your dishes,
You were always the one with practical guidance,
A generous heart that was always smiling and entertaining the little ones.
Ammama's siblings attended the wedding,
And they also witnessed a funeral,
‘Padpu’ mama helped tie my veshti for my wedding,
Little would we know he’s gonna’ help me again at a cremation site,
You had a small dinner at the hotel reception,
Ironically, you passed your last breath at the opposite hospital 2 days later,
Emotions choked us all,
And only time can soothe us now,
We can only hope now,
That you will be simmering within peaceful and harmonious moments.
We love you Amma,
One love of my life left as another love of my life came in,
I'm ever grateful for the presence of loved ones around,
I hope you don't have to incur rebirths, but that you remain in eternal rest,
Watching us from above,
With unconditional love.
- In tribute to my late dear mum, Madam Sivaneswary Maruthavanar (25.03.1955 - 12.07.2016)
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
Someone said the truth
sets you free
So I try to be
the shoplifted spirits
Irony poured me out
a little for my home
needed flattening
having wrinkled in time
Here's a reason
here's a rhyme
There's a fate
At my gate
He didn't knock
But dropped a line
There's a gun
In my fun
It doesn't stun
But blows his mind
Here a fate
There a fate
Everywhere a fate
fate
Oh my darling
What a charm
Free I, free I, oh!
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Words are just words,
Letters combined together
To give meaning into something
Words are just words,
It shouldn't weigh you
But, words can linger and haunt you
Just like the day i learned the word "dialysis"
February 6, 2022; 10:49PM
It doesn't bother, a fun word in tongue
Until I googled it —
Felt its weight,
It's overwhelming.
Since then, I am crying.
If words are just words,
Why this word aches me so much?
If the word doesn't exist,
Will I suffer from this?
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 1:28 AM UTC
I met a man
With failing kidneys
He was struggling hard
To catch his breath
He expects to wait
Five years for a transplant
It’s dialysis until then
Dialysis
And I think
What if this day becomes my last?
What should I have done
Differently?
Could I have helped more?
Could I be kinder?
As kind as he was
To me?
Perhaps he is showing me
How to live
Because he knows
How to face his own death
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Having shot up
(with two flavors of insulin)
before bed,
I've been instructed to snack.
So I drop fifteen pills
with an ounce
(of water)
and wait for the subtle wave
of unreality
to flow through me.
Never thought my Eskimos
would be four doctors
and a dialysis nurse.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
What is wrong with dark blood?
Black, I might say darker that port wine
I often watch as the patients
take their last breath
Some of them tried so hard to catch it
But, for some they just let it go slowly
with a few moment of puff:
I looked left to my coworker and
We knew what those looks meant:
Dialysis will most often be short term
There are moments when I would walk out of the room
Just craving for an imaginary cigarette,
A sip of beer, but I often settle for a refreshing
Glass of coconut water from the husk
Costly, but it’s worth every penny.
Life is a complicated status, no attachments, no buffering
So lets us make amends in a letter and post it to you
Or hide it in a hole in a tree;
Even burn it and toss it the air
I guess my imagination is intense,
Always seem so inspired, and
As you know my words is cheaper than usual
I am a word seeker, a self-made poet
a thinker not a talker…. *Like the statue
The Thinker Monumental
1903… Auguste Rodin(1840-1917)*
One loves my friends……..
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
My inner strength and constant fight,
does not stem from some inner might,
it comes from my inner bite,
and the depreciation of those around me.
Through my mental analysis,
I separate others through a dialysis,
and create my own psychoanalysis,
and it boosts my confidence by a degree.
I critique their brain, their clothes and their hair,
what I see in them is not fair,
but without knowing them I cannot care,
and that is how it will always be.
But I am not alone in the world of judge,
it is as if inside of me there is a grudge,
seeing others merely feels like a trudge,
and many others agree.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
The day the needle hit my vein I said to my self I’ll never be the same in the hospital going insane trading ebt for chump change like dam it’s a hurricane I need to get back to my old line ****** is Scared to lose friends and have enemy I’m like ***** you ever felt your own body not having your back looking at life this **** it wack stack up racks cause at 21 that’s where I was at now I’m playing for the Yankees cause my backwoods fat I ain’t rapping for fun I’m speaking facts low self esteem couldn’t get no *** from these Instagram chicks had to to go the back rout going to back page looking for the right number no feelings attach to blow her back out no love in the game **** is done you **** up i **** up **** it let’s just give up in my mind like dam there is no love then after that get hit by a cold storm dialysis trying to keep my attach to its self analysis transplant on a scary month always played dum just to watch you chumps I think it’s my time of the month I’m just so sprong 7 years of no birthday no fun had to take my self out my own body like look at your self you *** never really spoke about my feelings just kick it lay back smoke a blunt cause I wasn’t in to the other drugs but the hospitals visit and stay num me up Percocet’s up back pain now I’m just trying to find the way out like rapunzel rapunzel let your hair down so I can climb my way to being back to number 1 cause being number 0 **** felt like eating water with cereal
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 1:33 AM UTC
Inside my brain, there is a train
Near the caboose, a man sits in a noose
Writing fiery lines in his diary
Trying to convince his provincial demons
That he should depart the train
And not this life
So he pours out his struggle and strife
Searching for catharsis
Emotional dialysis
Escape from this chrysalis
Sometimes it is diaphanous
Sometimes he is an optimist
But in the end, the shell remains
His mind untamed
He’s not insane
But he is un-sane
He walks in mental rain
He feels a mental pain
Life is a mental drain
And so he stays inside the train
One day the train flew off the tracks
Everything the man knew went out of wack
He was tumbled and turned
He laughed and he learned
He cried and he died
And on the other side, he was reborn
No longer in hiding
Standing in the wreckage
Shaken but unscathed
The man was finally free
Free to finally be
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC