Sick Listed

The sickest pro-listers are stacked
together,
angrily racking

clanking metal brackets,
scratching polished
hard wood.
I started with
those I

could have,
or would have….

but, I shouldn’t have.

They carried luggage weights,
heavy
pounds of spouse cake, tarnished
plates of hatred and
pain.

But,  I caved in and waited,
counted thousands of
steep old kingdoms, waiting for left finger
rings to ditch them

or
a needle and thread to
fix their stitches, then
prem

their listed sickness.

Each remained, as did their
conditions,
becoming anchors,
growing rancorous chain links
and brackets.

So, I stacked them
back to,
back together, tethered
by their beastly gear,

fear chewing at their insides like
termites
grinding souvenir ply wood,

starting with those it
might
first bite at.

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17 thoughts on “Sick Listed

  1. biting! I could feel the clanking, the grating . One just gets feelings from your poetry. A profound world is created with each new poem, sights, sounds, feelings. I create my own idea of what your environment or subject is for each. Love your work! Never stop.

  2. You got it… You do got it. In spades I’m sure. Make reality seem as obliquely beautiful as it sometimes seems to be. Shift of vision like successive lenses. Inexplicable beauty.

    Can’t recall who said it, possibly one of the beats but, I suspect Whitman: “Poetry is the language of a state of crisis.”

    many praises.

  3. “fear chewing at their insides like
    termites” Dang! What words, it hit me in the gut, i could actually feel the fear inside me, crawling, twitching, itching…

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