Film making takes information like flowery script
To symbolize camera leaning cobwebs.
Postponement from the day pins hands
Played by reason that they can the wall doodles.
The white fancy looping of cherries
That look like the Haitian people.
Swarm squiggles over a crumpled audience
About the cultural witchdoctor.
The group of cursive has turned into an island.
The thing about living with chronic pain is that you forget that it is there. It becomes the baseline. The normal. The only times that you even remember that you are in pain is when you do something that causes it to flare up or when for some unexplained reason the pain temporarily goes away.
The flare ups are normal. You expect them. You have learned the work arounds. Over the last year or so people have become used to seeing you rubbing your shoulder. They no longer ask you if you are OK. Or if you need help lifting that box. That is just who you are the person that whines about your bum shoulder. Although, you never actually whine. You don’t even acknowledge the pain. The shoulder rubbing is just reflex.
But even them, the people that can no longer stand how much you complain about your arm (You never complain about your arm.), they don’t even notice the limp that you have been suppressing for the last 17 years. You don’t even remember the way it felt the last time it flared up. You just washed a couple of aspirins down with your last glass of water before bed and then complained about the strange bout of insomnia that you were having that night because not even you notice the intense pain that is keeping you awake.
But when the pain goes away. Those rare days when you wake up whistling, when you want to jump down the stairs, when you want to go to the park and join a pick up, but you don’t. That is when you realize something is wrong. You don’t do any of those things because you know that something is very wrong.
You remember the daily pain and pull back from living. Your normal daily activities are now too dangerous to attempt because you don’t want to shorten this ever too brief respite. Now, you know something is very wrong.
You want to go to the doctor and make him fix it. You want some sort of diagnosis. It must be something. Your doctor must have some cure. But you feel better, so you can’t bring yourself to go. You will talk to the doctor when it hurts again, but it is too late. The pain is back, and you have already forgotten what it feels like.
These things is machine.
Skeleton characters at strewn garbage they left
Removed from the Haitian scratch
Carpet mummy’s revenge.
The bleu that have any extended group of people mourning.
White zombie effort problems.
Foresight black, green, and brown.
Of stain, old screen.
Carriage, driver, and their time.
And both of the people disembodied.
Their nicknames from the mop of names:
Neil and Madeline serving handle. Black characters,
Years of patina leaning against a people.
Passages have come to the island of remnants.
Blender mop, white,
Used in very few places.
Handle leaned zombie,
Afford these the way.
The white actors in black face
By things is machine.
November from the people.
Speaking in semicolons
Through heightened exploitation
3 dabbed if it were to be sleep.
With her pulling parameters (not old fingers),
he said don’t pull poetics out my nose.
Being Edna, hitting him at the hair,
The narrowly defined wave.
Sushi man had curled this wonder.
Emersonian hairs for the physicians.
Every important topic of a balding old man
Draped in friends lies,
White and growing at the center.
Walsh knows that strength too follows.
Smoke escapes one’s free words.
Stay high in him like a nourishing.
Dispose me to escape the rock.
The 5th are senses.
The others are within.
Ladder side in the gate of Islam.
Even the Gods are some inane t-shirt.
Classic literature relates to nobody.
Wants to tarnish you.
Leaves you there as a figure.
This story is a coconspirator in the society
Of being to its basest animal.
A collection of sun written stories
Arching down its arms
Going to use its connection of lungs or worse.