In the country of Illness I live in a town called sick Squabbling and wordless Rounded outwardly and thick.
Not the first, nor ever last, The Second Line dances ecstatically past. Behind the mourners, they’re not the saints, All uplifted, marching in crowded street’s restraints. Wheeling, turning, lift and fall with porch swings, All souls rise upon the polls and upon night’s owl’s wings. Arriving I walked through stranded streets, Leaving, I grasp a heart (as my own skipped a beat.) Coming to hear my disease my diagnosis, Going to …
Stronger than knives or strokes and Beleaguered, lonesome old oaks, Together again, those wings, the trees, Gasping at them as I forgot to sing. Spanning years’ dimly stated demands Its our last night in the Neverland.
A well-positioned boy who smokes out a window, Discarding his amusement for a hummingbird. His green sharkskin suit, brightly alert - Dusted by sunshine, weakened with night. Heartbeats, just over a wing he spots you. In the span of a wink, He's gone from the ledge.
I find along side the road I’m currently on in my life with cancer, not waste and detritus, but people. Not hitchhikers, but people waving to me and telling me to keep going and not to stop since its rather unnecessary.
We all fall down. The ground grows smaller, As I pass the Earth, Becoming her daughter. Funny to stand today, Eclipsing the sun. My books marked still, On page one.
https://www.etsy.com/listing/500887842/vintage-rhinestone-encrusted-button-withButtons – it started with buttons. Vintage and old buttons to be precise. Hundreds became thousands. My theory: button mitosis. The rhinestone 1950s button you see above, one of the latest acquisitions, stands alone as a thought prototype come true by a nameless, faceless designer. I look at them as though I can save enough […]
Each life writing a page. For a bound legacy, Marked by birth and death.
And of our own self images, they’re not influenced by much positive representations. Especially those of us at stage IV. The stage no one wants to know much about at all. We, the misfits, don’t measure up to Santa’s ultra high standards, and become the toys left behind on Christmas Eve. Weepy-eyed, we stand shivering from the cold, waving goodbye to the tail end of a sleigh, to Santa Clause’s …