Six Years of Metastatic Breast Cancer & My Path

We hold so few of cards in that feared hand one’s dealt along with the diagnosis of any terminal cancer. As an adult we know too much of life by then to live outside of fear. We know far more about the losing hands to come at the cancer gambling table. Unforgettable emotions of diagnosis day never leave any of us the same. No one can conceive of the sentence handed down from an unseen place. The room becomes a blank echo chamber.

We cannot believe our bad luck nor even that the cancer itself somehow grew without us knowing. And no one can really explain it to us. No doctors. Not anyone we loved, not our friends, husbands or wives, mothers and fathers, spiritual guides. Not even god. Nothing those cards we sat holding that day in an office or on a bed in a hospital.

Or at home over the phone if a physician, or anyone in power at that time had they chosen such a cowardly way to end our lives. Just in as long as it took it hear the words we never thought we’d hear – cancer – we disintegrate. In one two-syllable word we change. Quite explicably yet into someone the same but very, very different – suddenly we know we’re dying although death escorted us to that moment in time all along.

Just as suddenly as that change, our gravity which once held the planets in our orbits releases everything we ever knew or held dear. People, faith, hope, love, plans, dreams all go flying away into the universe. Some never to be seen again.

We fall out of life’s great circle, kindu of like when poor little Pluto, downgraded from its original life as planet. I wonder how it took the news. Maybe it always knew it felt different from the other eight planets. Just a small sun orbiting satellite. We don’t really talk at all about it on earth anymore. It’s status shifted.

The Great Wait

After diagnosis I recall the eternity as I waited for the word “go.” The lack of immediate reactions became ludicrously too much to bear. Did these people not know I would die soon? I didn’t have all day or any time at all to wait anymore.

We metaphorically cut out our hearts and hold in our hands to show anyone who might say, “yes, it’s still beating, I see it. I see you.” Now we’re invisible as human beings as we begin the ending of our lives as a “patient.” We become a case. An invalid – so apropos. A disabled person. Some no longer able to work due to the cures. Not necessarily the cancer in all cases.

But patient means several things – it’s the sick and the ill to be sure. But the patience we’re asked to compose ourselves with as the unflinching and resilient ones. The indefatigable and persistent self-advocates who “fight” and then “lose the battle” to the disease. Is it the disease really that kills us all or the burning, poisoning and cutting we must endure? A patient endures. I prefer my friend Rudy’s endured to survivor (we don’t) or fighter (presumes a loser) or a warrior (again we lose a battle to an invisible enemy.

The enemy within us of our own cellular matter gone haywire. Some with genetic mutations, most – over 94% without any explanation. But we spend precious time seeking out a reason for all this. The physicians seek it out for us. They report back generally a status to us of where the cancer is, how it’s progressed. We hope for the disease to show no evidence of itself for a while but in general the scans tell a story of a different kind.

Living scan to scan with anxiety over what the future will hold in the result to be read to us by an oncologist or radiologist or read on our own. As my friend Victoria a long- term unicorn nearing 20 years of enduring metastatic breast cancer likes to quip with her fast wit: unremarkable and stable. That’s like the weather.

We hope there’s no storms brewing somewhere we cannot see yet. But the earth already moved under our feet so many times those losing poker hands don’t phase us much anymore. We save the tears for when we’re not at the table.

Your lips are moving but I can’t what you’re saying…

We leave our reading, or reporting, of the diagnosis without an idea of our real prognosis.

The elephant the room is the question, “how long do I have to live.”

We run home to Dr Google and find out what our general prognosis is – but we dare not look too long. That number of years cannot possibly apply to us. We have plans.

Some of us have surgery to allow the insertion of a port. A strange appliance that’s likely going to be in us until something drastic changes. Change as is very bad or really good. Nothing in between. The port becomes our Purple Heart.

It’s a three pronged plug in our chests that allows things to be put inside of us and take blood out of us for lab tests. It saves us from the living hell of becoming a pin cushion looking much like a junkie.

If we hadn’t known anything about cancer before we receive a stage 4 diagnosis we are known as de novo (from the beginning). No early stage cancer that we were diagnosed with before, we don’t have a clue as to what really is to befall us.

I couldn’t expect to live longer than six months maximum.

The Great Negotiator

When I found out and returned home form a week in the hospital – I reached into the virtual stream of information looking for more than just data on prognosis. I did not believe that 2.6 year average belonged to me. The physicians at the hospital said I should go and prepare my affairs.

Half joking I responded with, “I don’t have time for dying right now I’m too busy.” And I realize only now I was going through negotiation. It’s a recurrent phase most terminal patients go into at the time of their diagnosis settling into their cognition.

I’ll leave the boring details to five years of blog posts. The status of the day is pretty scary. Now my metastatic breast cancer awakened itself like the ugly blood born vampire it’s proven to me it can when it wants. Now again like three times beforehand, I’ve shown a proliferation of liver mets. Only this time it’s slightly different. The Mets and several other problems were caused by a cure itself.The radiation I so feared would cause me more harm than good, did. So now there’s a choice. I’m hesitant to “waste” life extending meds like Piqray and Aromasin . I began those this week on the same day I had another five liters of ascites fluid drained from my abdomen.

Neatly, I have a little mutation located by oncologist number four. I won’t count the first oncologist who informed me of important things through a nurse practitioner. She left me feeling frightened and uninformed, alone and afraid. Not good enough to sit and blankly stare at her computer screen while I assumed she was hearing my questions and get back to me. But she hoped I suppose I’d forget. Never feigning to take a note or respond with a promise to get back to me. She lasted about three months. I asked for a second opinion, and she got knsukted and I felt guilty for asking.

It’s the PIK3CA mutation.

Carried to me by my father from my grandmother, who died in 1969 from metastatic breast cancer. She was born in 1903. Graduated high school in 1921. Was a hat model and my grandparents were very much in love, pictures of them dressed to the nines at the clubs in Harlem and the Borscht Belt shows of the Catskills, in New York City, in Miami Beach. She smiled, she dressed so beautifully. She was tall and interesting, and she loved me ever so much, the daughter she never had. She nearly died in childbirth with my father and his lost twin brother, after countless miscarriages.

Unicorn
The Unicorn- an MBC endurer who has lived past the statistical data currently available and continues to thrive on the medications currently available to extend our lives.

This past month I had a forced break to take my a Covid vaccine. That break created a perfect storm of timing to do so. I’ll be as good as it gets in terms of my blood cell count and my metabolic panel. I’ll be as healthy as I can to handle what may come. Attempting to line up some level of support proves difficult.

However, as always, we know in our hearts what will work for us. I don’t believe coming to cancer with a severance of mind and body is necessarily our best platform for optimal healing. It’s one and the same thing.

I wonder if there’s any magic to become a unicorn. Something mythical and magical, a thing that’s studied, watched. Captured by its own special aura. The colorful rainbow of light protruding from its head. What could I do to get my horn?

Separating my mind from my body can’t work regardless of over six years with metastatic cancer. I’m not depressed, nor am I falling to pieces, although there’s nights I cry so hard from sheer loneliness, I could wring myself out like a dish towel in my kitchen itself bleached, dirty, and once was brand new until it got its demotion from status of the bathroom to wiping grease from the stove.

Yet I can not say it all began that way six years ago Thursday. It’s through learning what our body’s needs are and responding to those with our minds focused on the healing of our bodies when we can achieve the maximum possible results at that time. Perhaps as we go along the cures worse than the disease. I don’t know. So much is a big question and a level of risk goes with every card hand we’re dealt.

That’s okay too. We all face a lot of uncertainty. Additionally in these times of so much isolation and perhaps even not seeing as much of our health care teams as we had become accustomed, it’s crazy to think they even know us well anymore.

Seeing us for an hour every eight weeks certainly is not quite enough – after a chart review, perhaps a bloodwork result or a scan result to go by or if your oncologist believes in cancer numbers then those too, but I honestly believe had we waited to see if the bone met shrunk with the Verzenio which did nothing for me close to ibrance and fulvestrant but that’s another story as to how that got screwed up by insurance company bullshit and a missed fax to Pfizer by a nurse practitioner I’d not have nearly died in early 2019.

Whatever comes comes at this point six years in just now finding out I have the PIK3CA mutation because my new oncologist asked for a review given 40% of lobular MBC patients have that mutation. I am immediately dumbstruck as to how Stanford missed it and how Foundation One missed it and how the heck the genetics counselors missed it.

I’m scratching my head but maybe all things in time. I have hope at my side, my cat curled up on my lap, my husband ignoring me downstairs and a world of people who love and care about me. There’s a beautiful house I am blessed to live in sheltering me. Blessed to complain about deciding what I will make for dinner when I’m fortunate to have a dinner to make. And I count my blessings for they are many and I’m aware of the hardship so many other people face I must live a life of service when I am able to.

I hope you will find more reasons to come by in year seven. Let’s see if I keep beating the house. Because we all know in gambling and in metastatic cancer the house will always win.

And for all of you who support my habit of writhing poetry heeere’s another one. Thank you for indulging me.

Return to Sender
Characteristics measure as weather such
Driving risk factors
But too late now to turn back.
And where your next paycheck comes from or
you’re going to get the food you need to eat?
The luxury of wanting to explore the world
Comes as a consequence
Of knowing there’s more
Out there than just us.
The injustice of beginning to know:
We residents of history
Never addressed or linked together and in the end
we realized that we could actually
Find just the characteristics of right now in this moment
For it’s all we have
That, and our breath.
I don’t know if it’s enough of an argument for
Transcending simply with my own air to help
Me float by
With a simple meditative fix.
A plane perhaps but by breath
I’m beginning to wonder
If it’s a hoax or too complex.
With so many risks
Such factors - what did you decide to notice?
To hug chemicals regardless of history’s exposures
Or enter into a race so to predict
The depth of pockets of children picked to share characteristics
Just like the ones who are real that’s one reason why
The individual impossibility of me
Having been exposed to intervene or change the outcome
Yet I know my kind of density.
People often talk about it as if it’s what changes as
A response to differences in stress.
Do you remember how many we saw yesterday
wondering whether we have enough information we think we do of
The particular and of the extreme
Yet it’s not like we had to ask.
Questions like who is significantly greater our daughters or
Our grandmothers?
Take the injustice of abandonment.
Beginning to uncover pots of stews
Cut up cubes of meat and potato bright carrots and dulled parsnips
Cut into pieces meant to intervene that create need out of want?
Yet it might give us some real information about why systemic and historical vantage points
In the end in our control, our personality changes
The how we and the science
Of who we are now
acceptable or whether to bet
The risk of results for
Telling out to the world
for hope for exposure?
Our right
in these hard days to argue against
Conversations
and the social networks of
women are stark as anything
Growing up to be a silver bullet and to provide important priorities of what we might do to stop this now
and be sure it’s
Done.

Happy New Year?

This new year felt awfully late to me. Do you feel like this past year’s already a long time in the past? We hope that every new year, albeit a construct of human needs to mark time of another revolution ‘round the sun, the axis tilted and the earth on its eclipses as far from warmth as we can get having just changed seasons on the winter solstice, we sought to find joy in the chilly night air.

Looking forward we engage in a toast, some with promises to themselves of improvements, some with a toast of bubbly in a champagne glass – “tink” – fireworks, a ball dropping to no one physically in Times Square this year. Perhaps a hug if we were lucky enough to be with another human being at one second after midnight on the cusp of another 12 months. All sorts of celebrations feel long overdue – without a potential date in sight to partake in person in wedding receptions, dinner parties, funerals, religious gatherings, or spiritual circles. Yet our lungs filled with the fresh air of hope, January 1st at 12:01 different come midnight. That’s if we weren’t intubated in some lonely ICU, or without a partner, or a close friend to sit and hear the world sigh. The world didn’t hang a new air freshener on the rear view mirror and the pandemic didn’t change for the better. Unlike Cinderella’s carriage, it instead turned into giant rotting pumpkin filled with rats.

Those carriages pulled up to the castle and out teemed armed vermin in a violent riotous crowd. The rats invaded the castle with their small minds filled with hatred spurred on by misaligned jingoistic propaganda and ugly rhetoric. They left a dead stinking red herring to lay bleeding on Pennsylvania Avenue. Now the whole world smells slightly fishy. Somethings not right, is it?

A big can of Hope – the virtual disinfectant

Yet there’s hope. Hope never dies but like energy changes form. It shifts. Shift happens. I hope the world shifts slightly to allow an immense healing to take place the likes of which no ones ever seen – I can’t imagine another time ever like this one – and I hope it’s an opportunity to rethink our approach to sustainability of every kind: physical, emotional, environmental. And we should not forget. It’s so easy to forget and fall back into old habits. Like resolutions unkept. We have to remember and recall what’s important and as close to reality as we can get.

Two million dead is a hard number to forget isn’t it?

Terminal Cancer, the other pandemic disease

Metastatic cancer doesn’t allow me to forget it’s hiding out in my bones. It jars me awake into the present should I ever forget that my health comes first and that the body I call my own is temporary: a rental in a non rent controlled apartment. At some point it won’t be feasible to live here any longer. It will become a slum. There will be no renovations, no more past due extensions. And my body won’t live up to code standards. I will shift my hope to move on to the next place away from the here and now…

Love and the good grace of the people who support me yet I’ve never met in person are all on my heart this year. Some have died and three women in particular are with me in spirit as I sit in bed with my cat son Simon wishing for sleep to come my way. One friend died out of the blue – she was a vibrant advocate and writer and was giving me some guidance in both areas.

So alas, may 2020 become hindsight and remain in our rear view mirrors as the wheels spin out from the dirt roads onto the pavement. Back in the sunlight and out of the shadows of lies and deceit. Indelibly connected to one another like the sun and truth. The truth be our guide. The sun open our blooms to open to full blossom.

The Disasters

I heard words I knew once were forbidden -
My fortune wasted on life’s misgivings.
Forcing down eight courses, poisonous drink
How the blunt force of words causes us to think
Drowning in the fuel, the entire bottle.
Get in the car lock the doors, choke the throttle.
Drive our team of shining horses farther and faster -
Each whip snap stinging their backs with disaster.
Delete my pages, these ugly words.
Tossing them like breadcrumbs to the birds.
Release from their cages hungry beasts,
Entice them out with bloody raw meat.
Into my neck a needles plunged -
My voice so hoarse, the cat’s got my tongue.
Cook the bones until they’ve boiled.
Stained by trash, our clothing’s soiled.
Lay down gently, close your eyes,
Focus on the breath now say goodbye.
Softly lay your head down and hear the whispers,
'From every woman: born my sisters.'

A metastatic incurable romantic: am I wasting my precious time writing poems?

If you’re old enough you’ll remember the ABC Wide World of Sports voiceover while Slovenian skier Vinko Bogataj, whose immortalized crash off a ski-jump, came to epitomize defeat. While he falls down a mountain off a ski jump now over 50 years ago, the recognizable voiceover emotionally says, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”

As with metastatic breast cancer, the imminence of death does not a loser make. It’s the lack of medications and research needed to fund those discoveries that failed to keep us alive. A mere 6-7% of your donations to breast cancer support MBC. As such, some of us may lose the fears we towed packed in our emotional baggage. Primarily the fear of death psince death, a fear just under speaking in front of large crowds, has already demoted itself on the lists of the terminally ill. It’s not in the “if’s” but the “when’s” column along with failure, love, isolation, support, and rejection. Part of poetry involves, like speaking to a crowded ballroom, boos and hisses of rejection by readers and if one chooses to try to become published by a journal or magazine. That’s if you can get past the selection criteria and the subjective taste of journal editor(s). Your writing might go to the publication using Submittable or other online tools that take the guesswork out of formatting and also take your money if there’s a fee associated with handing over your brilliant poesy for scrutiny.

However, not too many of us will get the trill of victory and wind up with a slew of letters or emails that will read something like:

Dear person of limited talents, 
Our publication receives thousands of submissions a year. Unfortunately, your poems do not fit within our very prestigious blah blah blah yadda yadda. Please feel free to send us another $20 per garbage we’ll likely continue to tear out your guts with by making you feel like a complete loser. Be well and stay safe.
Fuck you very much,
The Editor’s Form Letters

- Concocted example of a rejection letter

Loss and Pain

Writing poetry doesn’t differ much from masochism. Reading it feels much the same to some: as painful as fresh raw wounds inflicted via a sadistic whipping by a cat o’ nine tails. Line by line, verse after verse, sonnet or haiku, it’s a risk to spatter your page with blood from your open chest revealing your heart to the surgical public: only to hear through an anesthetic haze the comment that someone hates poetry. I’m sure in the population of readers more would rather a cancer diagnosis than read poetry for the rest of their lives. Should you fall into that side of the population, trust me, take the poetry, just as in The Godfather it’s best to leave the guns and take the cannoli rather than approach the screeching wife at home awaiting that night’s just deserts.

Joking aside, “Loss is not the same thing as defeat,” Stephen Colbert stated before an interview with Joe Biden in 2015 who lost his son. Biden’s son, Beau died of brain cancer at the age of 46 two years after diagnosis. Joe Biden, president elect, was head of the Obama administration’s cancer moonshot. But as 2020 comes quickly, and with relief to many of us, to a close, we all feel the defeat of the moonshot as it was. However, all’s not lost.

But in some sense we’ve all felt the loss of our selves as who we were to “bravely” become who we are now – as though we have another choice. We can refuse treatment and exercise our right to choose risking dying a quick and painful death.

We mourn our lost sisters and brothers. Immediately I can see on my mind the smiles of just a few of our friends who have died this year including lovely Katie lumps, Emily Garnett, and most recently Nancy Siebel, who died without warning and without a hint of sickness died a few weeks ago. While I mourn them, I mourn myself, too. Reminders of the unknowable future I’ve waiting for me. Sooner than later.

What does my fear have to do with writing? It’s my smoke signal that I’m still alive to my virtual network of friends. We hope to continue seeing writing come forth in our very personal blogs, our Twitter accounts, photos on Instagram, and even through the evil annals of Facebook, of which I’m vocally about not being a fan. I choose WordPress as my platform because I’m free to say what I want. You don’t have to like it or read it.

We all display different variants of expression. Annieasksyou writes similarly to my style of blogging, combining both personal essay and poetry. Others use different media altogether like The Brain Cancer Diaries by Rudy Fischman. Still others use their voices on a rising number of podcasts like the newer Our MBC Life podcast . And some blogs stick strictly to the topic like Nancy’spoint or Abigail Johnson’s NoHalfMeasures, and the lovely Marie Ennis-O’Connor’s Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer. Still more like Gogs Gagnon and Julia Barnickle who reflect so wisely in books published for the sake of us all.

Egotistical Self-publishers

In a sense bloggers are all self publishers. There’s a colossal difference in the way poetry is written, who reads it, what anyone takes with them from our drawings in words. It’s frightening hitting the publish button. Knowing a few people will read it, fewer still will “like” it, and fewer still may understand my illegible thoughts enough to comment. And I read a lot of blogs because the conversations exist between us – either stated or unspoken. Sometimes I find myself answering a question someone poses in their blog or that came up in a conversation by way of commenting.

If you read my blog you’ll notice I’ve been publishing more poetry recently. First, I plan to self publish a chap book. For those both uninterested in poetry and who really just don’t like reading it, a chap book is a small volume usually about 40 pages of poetry.

You might find reading topic specific poetry in bite sized chunks more palatable. But the chapbook has more historical importance than you might know:

Chapbook is first attested in English in 1824, and seems to derive from the word for the itinerant salesmen who would sell such books: chapman. (The surname of the man who some say under the control of the CIA murdered one of our great modern musical poets, John Lennon) The first element of chapman comes in turn from Old English cēap (‘barter, business, dealing’) from which the modern adjective cheap was subsequently derived.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chapbook

Historically Speaking

Though cheap, modern writers and readers owe a huge debt of gratitude to Gutenberg and his 17th century printing press, to John Locke’s and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s influence on the 18th century age of enlightenment, and the rise of the library loaning books for free to a general population.

With a literacy rates growing for both men and women (Locke viewed education, not women, as inferior, hoorah for John Locke.) The thirst for reading materials seemed unquenchable but it also presented some expense most everyone except the elite 1% of the population could afford. Sound familiar – have music and the arts kept their place in a good public education? Money can’t buy love of painting or dance. Or poetry.

In the 17th through 19th and early 20th centuries, poetry presented a well-liked, digestible medium. Popular poets were like modern film and recording stars both in the United States and in Europe. How sexy Lord Byron and Joh Keats really were is certainly debatable but they had their way with the fairer sex of the time. I suggest If you’re interested, pick up the bawdy Boswells London Journal, which provides an excellent portrait of 17th century’s rise of literacy. James Boswell journals his experiences in acquiring the interviews with Samuel Johnson, the first lexicographer and the man who penned the first English dictionary.

The book also portrays the attitude towards women’s literacy and of women becoming writers in their own right. Negative to say the least, but times change, and Kamala Harris although a late entrant into the hammering of the glass over our heads will remain an historical bookmark in the pages of modern American history.

Here’s a quick poem in light of my ever present concern over the entirety of what’s expected. Can we ever release ourselves through verse, through guilt, or anything for that matter? There can be many reasons why poetry can’t heal certain psychological scars. I think the last four years may be one of them:

A Moon shot through 
My heart: I fell out of favor
Beside the children in cages
On the border between
US and those
Who pick our fruit.
Or you weren’t aware
Covered in blood
From a million little pricks
Of ridiculous idolatry
Worship or die to
Learn the fate of
The incoming.
Dignified and individually
Wrapped, ready
From a long run
To pick up a lighter
Set the fuse on fire
And liftoff.
Watch that long tail
Don’t you notice the red glare —
The truth? Pull us out of the dark
Age of carcinogenic
Hairline breaks and
Open the crates.
Release us from our fate
On the broken backs
And the bloody hands
Of our future makers.
The strawberries and oranges
(Does nothing rhyme anymore?)
I can again rot in the
Cold bin of the fridge
Leave the rest grounded
Feeding only worms,
Like I will
Someday.

Sometimes Silence is Golden, Sometimes

Sometimes there’s acts requiring virtual silence to absorb whatever is said, and for poets, what’s unsaid: how we choose the breaks between stanzas and lines; rhyme schemes versus free verse; trapping ourselves in a structure like a Westin’s or sonnet; how we begin a verse; and how we choose our timing – slow versus fast beats, short or long lines. I know for myself my process starts with a flow – I let whatever my mind must let loose to the page – in the majority cases these days, an electronic page. Now there’s no going back to earlier drafts and I am not sure if I’m better off for it or worse off…but that’s my chosen path. Otherwise I could spend years in revision. I’ve learnt to cut and slice out what I hope makes sense to the reader and to me.

The last six years allowed me the time for a huge period of maturing in my writing; it’s also concurrent to when I started the blog five years ago.

I often wonder why my readership ebbs and flows. And what’s really interesting is that the more popular posts tend also to be the most personal.

Having an MBC makes ones life a train wreck. I think it’s probably anyone’s guess as to when the train will hit us and there will be no more words published – I publish once a week for this reason. If I stop – you can bet something has gone terribly wrong with my health. When I do finally succumb to my terminal illness, I have a last post written that a friend I trust is instructed to publish on my blog. It will flow to all my social media accounts and that will be the end.

But it’s not the end. The whispering of words will continue to speak for our lives beyond our deaths. Our names and our writings will linger on, as long as MBC is a big deal and it is. And as long as we keep dying from cancer, and we will.

I suppose the tragedy, my own illness, the crowned prince of all viruses, coronavirus 19, the deaths to come, are really portrayed by my own mortality reflected in the eyes of the frightened and the ignorant. It’s extraordinary to see the amount of people afraid and alone. I live my life, isolated with uncertainty underlining my own careful steps to remain with the living and the people I chose as my family. Those who share my blood do not even check in to see if I’m still pumping my own red cellsp through my veins. Fuck ‘em. Believe what they want since I’ve not found my way home since 2006.

Musical palate cleansing

Steve Windwood – Can’t Find My Way Home

Come down off your throne leave your money at home…And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home.

A fabulous one-man acoustic version of a song my honey doesn’t particularly like for some reason, but brings tears to my eyes.

Here’s my last poem of 2020, a year to remain in hindsight where it belongs. I wrote to end this tragic year – perhaps as always, I turn to poetry when the sourness of reality impinges on this sweet life in a body I borrowed in 1965 to use this brain and these hands to communicate something to anyone who cares to read or to listen. Be safe. Be well. We’ve a long way ahead of us; magical fairy dust cannot cure the ill or the ailing and divided union. But it certainly can begin to give us hope. And as the women we lost to metastatic breast cancer this past year, let’s hope their lives hadn’t passed us by without teaching us all something. Something about grace. I hope they feel no pain. I hope for all our lives. Every last one of us.

A year of tragic proportions
full of lies and propaganda
Yet too, of truth and love.
How does anyone now doubt my disease:
Like my love
you may not see what flows
in me. Yet my blurry
Eyes set you
in a rifle site.
I shoot Scattershot
right into the crowds of cows.
Once up all night with
Dreams of toilet paper,
Of asses cleaned
By dirty hands
And shit created
With growth hormones
pasting together
small squares to
wipe away the false flavor
of what was once a berry.
How far have we sunk
like Atlantis that once beautiful city with streets live with the hustle and flow of
coming and going
replaced with the fast footprints of people running from the tide
of the laws of nature
the cops of the righteous
washing away our sins.
Women grabbed unwillingly
by the hands of moonlight.Future
Archaeologists may dig
shuttered small shops and the bones of
the dead lines in a Target.
Will we again communally eat at celebration meals?
Long tables of false bounty hunted
by the loners and the lonely,
whose social distance is much more than six feet,
it could be six feet deep under the earth,
where epitaphs will not read
Rest In Peace —
but of life stolen
in a looting of family photos by a violence so incredible we no longer can breathe under
The hard knees of insanity
As our necks crush
Under the weight of the onlookers
Who died inside
But left the rest of us
For live. But we died that night, too
It’s said hindsight’s 2020 and
By all accounts
The book’s written.
The authorities found the writer
And his unnatural wife
On a course in Florida
Where the tides came to wash away
The sins and the sinister.