"sciatica" poems
So often
Going through the day
Minding my own business
and people feel the need to intrude.
Smoking outside my building
Just want silence
One of the local talkies comes over
Going on and on
Sciatica pain he says
On and on
and on and on
“Probably emotional” I tell him
He did not like that
Most people don’t
When you suggest there is something
more going on
Than they are willing to face.
But I have decided
If they want to intrude
on my solitude
I don’t have to chew it.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
He went looking for Pace-Maker Mary
and found her with Dollar Jane.
Who’s to blame?
She said it was none of his business
She said she’ll see whom she pleases
She said she was tired of men
and especially tired of geezers.
She said she wanted a new life
one without the ******
It gave her the blues to be always in shoes that hurt her heels and sciatica.
That it was nice for a change to be the one with the game
the one who’s doing the chasing.
And if that don’t sit she don’t care a bit
now excuse me my Janey is waiting.
But he’ll wait forever for Pace-Maker Mary
however long it takes.
He’ll bide his time
until he finds
the thing that makes her tick.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Start with something casual:
“I miss you” is a good opener,
but don’t forget the twist—
throw in a parenthetical like
“(but not enough to beg)”
just to keep him guessing.
Follow up with a double text,
something vaguely existential.
Maybe:
“Do you ever think about
the weight of your own cowardice?”
And when he doesn’t respond,
add:
“Haha jk, how’s your sciatica?”
Text three should be a song lyric—
not one he knows,
but something obscure and devastating,
like:
“And the skeletons in both our closets
plotted hard to **** this up.”
Don’t explain it.
Let him Google it at 2 a.m.
and spiral in silence.
For text four,
go for the jugular:
“Do you think you’ll ever stop
mistaking fear for wisdom?”
Pause.
Then send:
“Nvm, that was mean.
What’s your comfort show again?
Mine’s Parks and Rec.”
By text five, he’ll start to crack.
He might reply with something cautious,
like:
“Are you okay?”
This is your chance.
Answer with:
“Define okay.”
Then immediately change the subject—
“Wait, what’s your zodiac rising?”
Text six is where you plant the seed of doubt:
“Sometimes I think we’d have worked out
if I didn’t know you so well.”
Wait exactly four minutes,
then follow up with:
“Or maybe if you knew yourself better.”
For text seven, go full cryptic:
“You remind me of that one painting—
you know, the one they had to repaint
because it was falling apart.”
Let him sit with that one.
By text eight,
he’ll either call or give up.
If he calls, ignore it.
If he doesn’t,
send:
“Anyway, good talk.
Hope life’s treating you
as kindly as you deserve.
Interpret that how you will.”
Text nine is optional,
but it’s my favorite:
“Do you even notice the silence
when it’s not yours?”
Text ten is the finale.
Simple, clean, devastating:
“I hope you finally stop running,
and when you do,
I hope it’s too late
for anyone to catch you.”
Dec 28, 2024
Dec 28, 2024 at 5:28 AM UTC
I am an aroma trapped in the haze,
So sweet and friendly like the taste of decay.
I know that I am sciatica and sage,
Reminiscent of an older age.
I feel like a cherry tree falling apart,
Season after season, a forest of art,
And candles burn in the bottoms of hearts,
Chocolate and smoke on the steps in the dark.
I can taste the fire on your mouth
And all the birds are flying south
But I can't bring myself to look at you. Not now,
Or maybe ever,
Because through this earth we've come together
And how do I know that two birds of feather
Can fly over mountains and valleys and heather
Without falling apart? Words over eyes,
I am blinded by the sun in the sky.
I was fog and shadow 'til you parted the vines
But what if this feeling that I had tonight
Is just your voice ringing in my ears,
Tinnitus, words that carry my fears.
The taste of your name is wild and fierce
Like the rowan or rose or stacks on the piers.
I am tripping and falling over all that is clear
In the water. So cold.
So cold, I have nowhere to go.
I am drowning in a world of all that I know.
I no longer have a place of my own,
I remember the scent of your laughter and prose
And I am all alone.
I am devastation, like sorrow and lies,
And I will crumble and wither until the reprise
Yet, despite your mouth being so close to mine,
I don't know what the touch of your hand implies.
Downsized.
I am lesser than you.
The shadows are warping, the valleys are blue.
My tongue is caught on the taste of the yew,
The water is rising like prayers on the pews.
Collapsed and free, I'm tumbling through
The oceans, the ashes, a lark full of rue.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND
"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.
Come Louis and play
with my food
transforming my porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination
so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land
buried under snow
and now with milk
a land invaded by
a white sea
the mind flooded
with thought
wave upon wave
of seeing
the food itself
taking second place
to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into
when seasoned with
such dreams.
And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères
writing in the dark
with your left hand
to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging
the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.
"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*
finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."
Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night
lighthouses
of the mind.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC