yesterday my right hand was whittled in two places
i can feel the sutures tug when i overflex/and every several minutes the constant dull ache gets a brief sharp stab of emphasis
but ibuprofen and the weensiest splash of canadian whisky have been effective pain management
and i welcome the sensation as evidence of healing
on the left wrist until early this morning/ were the enhancements of FALL RISK warning tape/and Adhesive Bandage Sensitivity medical advisory/to go with my visit ID of name°date of birth°date of service°visit code
so the left wrist is a drastically reductive synopsis of my current identity and peculiarities
while the right hand is a reconstruction zone
i am a fall risk in winter springing back from infirmity
and just this instant summer you are perhaps wondering what the lame puns are doing in an otherwise serious poem
there are two answers
one is that the tendency–nay, the URGENCY–of making puns is hardwired into my DNA
and the other reason is that i tasted the first draft of the poem and found it bland
The soup is turnip and yellow and bell pepper and barley and vegetable stock and three carrots, softened to succulence in a crockpot overnight
The coffee is from Sumatra, recommended by a magnificently tattooed artisan who makes bells as part of one of Arcosanti’s revenue streams
The coffee is in a mug that the maker calls “The Anarchy Cup,” inspired by a former co-worker who denounced all politicians
And is flavored with half&half and blue agave syrup recommended by an architect friend whose designs were incorporated into buildings made throughout the Valley of the Sun over forty-five years
The bowl of soup is gone but there’s more in the crockpot, cooling
Dessert is Whoppers with the coffee that helps the chocolate dissolve to uncover the malted-milk core
And the Whoppers remind the bachelor of going to the movies with his daughter, now estranged
It is a layered breakfast laced with memory and reminder
her scar starts/by encircling her left big toe 96 times/in a tight coil/that looks like a pale toe ring
continues as a single line/to the instep/where it makes a logarithmically-spaced double spiral/ultra-dense at its center/where the line retains its unoverlapping singularity/by flanking itself and sparkling back outward/from the center
and the single line continues/with a floor plan of the house she grew up in/placed above the gastrocnemius muscle of her left calf
the line stops at mid-thigh after having become four condors wheeling around her kneecap
at precisely the two-mile point
because she’s out of disposable funds right now/and recreational laser surgery is not cheap
“I ain’t much, Lord, but I’m all I got.” The down&out West-Sider lowered his head in prayer. But before he started, the voice of the LORD rang in his head, saying “Never mind the prayer. Go to the pawn shop on the corner of 12th Street and Indian School.”
Stupefied, the bum (he called himself such) obeyed, going Eastbound on a bus whose driver waved away his two bucks.
At the pawnshop was a guitar the LORD told him to buy. As Divine Providence had it, the guitar was going for seventeen dollars less than what he had.
“Now go to the McDonald’s on 51st,” saith the LORD. “Get a small order of fries and a water cup.”
At the McDonald’s there was a woman about his age who, watching him order, interrupted the transaction by saying, “Please, Sir, let me buy you something more, substantial than that.” Soon he was sitting down to two Quarter Pounder Deluxes, a large fry, and an Oreo milkshake and large Dr. Pepper. Then she took him home, where she had him take a hot shower and change into some of her late husband’s clothing.
“Play me a song, please, on your guitar.”
He picked up the guitar, and though he hadn’t played in years, his hands were nimble; and he began playing and singing a song that had never before existed.
Lord, I ain’t much lowered,
So I’m getting to my feet.
Dear Lord, I ain’t much lowered,
So I rise, and I cast off all defeat.
I know You help those who help themselves
So I’ll see you when my Resurrection is complete.
Suddenly he stopped playing and singing.
The lady applauded, and stuck two fingers in her mouth to whistle loudly. But the man shushed her. “Ma’am, I have to leave. I just realized I have to live up to the words I just sang. I can feel your loneliness, and I know you can feel mine, but we are not on equal terms right now. I hope to knock on your door soon and offer you more than a down-and-out bum with a song in his heart. Meantime, though, please accept my thanks. I am grateful.”
He rushed out the door as quickly as he could.
A month later she received mail from him, and a money order for fifty dollars. He told her he was unlowering himself nicely and the money was for the meal and clothing.
Three months later he sent her yellow roses and told her he had been upgraded to full-time work.
A year and two weeks later a car pulled up in front of her house and there was a knock on her door.
to the late jane bowers stoneman on her 90th birthday
hey there, mom happy birthday in the great wherever
and here’s hoping you are healed and free and in the company of some you love
paula was your middle name perhaps you and uncle paul have reunited
perchance you dream glorious starscapes perforcedly beyond my or any human ken
your light-green eyes in the sunlit kitchen you looked into eternity heedless of Hey Mom
.
but you always needed times of inaccess in the many-pillowed bed for a two-hour nap reading the phoenix gazette taking a walkered walk in your latter life how glad i was to make you laugh dimple up your face and make you proud to have mothered me yet there was certainly a good bit of arguing
I thought I woke up this morning/But it was afternoon instead.
Oh, I thought I woke up this morning/But the Sun was way up overhead.
Baby, please come to my rescue, and let’s make better use of this bed.
.
Tied a string around my finger/But I can’t remember why.
Tied a string around my finger/But my brain’s a cloudless sky.
Maybe it means I should tie one on. My sense of humor can be quite rye.
.
They say my brain is shrinking/But it somehow won a prize.
Such tiny thoughts I’m thinking/Want a burg and curly fries.
The MRI says ATROPHY and I can’t wait to put it on my shelf. Now for that burg!
.
Notes:
Charlie Gordon was the main character in the Hugo-award-winning short story Flowers for Algernon. He was a mentally challenged man who through brain surgery became super-intelligent, but only temporarily. He recorded his mental rise and decline in the form of “progress reports” and so his decline is especially heartbreaking as his sentence structure loses complexity and his spelling becomes erratic.
A not-so-fun fact is that my own brain has shrunk over that last five years, and the docs say it’s a more significant shrinkage than is deemed normal for someone my age. They say that it’s diffuse, though, and should not be affecting my verbal skills. I consider my writings of late to be my “progress reports.” I’ve stepped up my production–have you noticed? 🙂
Grateful acknowledgment to Bob Dylan for writing “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues.” Here’s a taste of his lively lyrics:
Sweet Melinda, the peasants call her the goddess of gloom She speaks good English, invites you up into her room And you’re so kind and careful not to go to her too soon And she takes your voice and leaves you howling at the moon
One with Clay, Image and Text 