I’d Have Given My Toes

My hands are my agony,
in deep rage, threatening
operation.

They collaborate with mutual’s:
knees,
elbows, feet,
wrists. The Pang Posse.

I’d have given my toes
with a hundred dollars
and a last
fruit stand for
proper, long-term
use.

Instead, I have pretty,
throbbing appendages, all in
natural
spots, functioning
barely.

Great Chronic Abyss

These finger links
of mine, no longer grow
but,
oh, how they grind!

I shift
puff-puff
skeleton knots, dis-locating
invisible wounds.

Morning is a stiff time. I am a scroll,
unrolling myself from
sleep ooze
and
itch,

useless cramped squares
stand
on trial for invisible crimes,

charged

with betrayal,
laziness,
deceit.

Tender body cage, must be fallacious!
What a disease!
What a nuisance I have grown to be,
with invisible
torment,
a foggy fever.

My skin understands my body bag antics!
It attempts detachment from me,
wants no part of
a
walking, breathing lie!

Slight touch sends the annoyed body film
into
fit – a raging, burning, frenzy
reaching for a
fool’s
exit.

Worried and choked,
we tizzy,
we taut,
my bright, red, rot skin
and me

deciding that our womb blood
has been chasing us
since our
original
birthday, trying to swim fast enough to
catch up with our skepticism.

Still vernal, but
not enough. We follow, we follow
heredity’s footsteps
into a great chronic abyss.