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There’s little that’s prurient about surgical tape, gauze stuck in wounds,
Measures of peroxide and Mupirocin. Stitches, staples, special glue,
Likewise cull no memories of court seats, sunny fields, too much icing.
Videlicet, sometimes, a neighborhood’s most rabid visitor is neither
Komodo dragon nor entrepreneur raccoon. There are days when death,
Masked as angels, announces in minor chords its many-faced intentions.
On such anniversaries, it’s best to ignore glorious upstarts, snub promised
Endings, overlook happiness’ plans for vacations, nannies, working cars,
Think less about social strata climbing, give up aspirations of popularity.
It takes guts to eyeball knife-happy oncologists, radiologists with “ideas,”
Nurses stuck on protocol, administrators who neglect to acknowledge
Necessary insurance forms, co-payments, maximum fiduciary solvency.
The “biological hazards” that get removed are hardly the worse invaders
When shift schedules dictate procedures, rich and famous get privileges,
Questions are outsourced to the hands of healthy nationals living abroad.
Yes, the best response to scary attackers, the most prized heroic measure,
Can be called in to fill tissue dispensers, empty garbage bins, perhaps also
Admonish misguided volunteers expecting you to like hospitals ever after.
For any who must navigate medical waters during this storm… (Congrats to KJ on the release of her new collection, “Rudiments.” Get your copy on Amazon here.) – mh clay
Children of that ilk get shipped to college
With first-aid boxes plus contact information
For emergency rooms and trauma centers.
Frequently, given lawyer-approved accords,
Also modified expectations, they well marry,
Incorporating stridulating partners as family.
Regardless of whether significant others adopt
The unalome, practice witchcraft, maybe sing
At dusk, their happiness remains compromised.
See, boys and girls were never meant to sit out
Seasons, monitor spouses, collaborate with no
Hope of change, drink no more than bitterness.
Cure the illness in the ilk; slurp sweet, too. – mh clay
Yes, we persist on giving popularity greater primacy than compassion.
We’re known to board rockets to nowhere, to throw riches into sewers,
To invite in commensalism, to otherwise escort disturbing values. We
Want for: attention, fortitude, awareness that worlds aren’t playthings.
As well, hardly any persons among us challenge these skint principles.
Life’s not just picnics in urban parks, frolicking in countryside glens,
Media-driven, saturated insights. Rather, each lickspittle contributes
To the growing morass of mindless actions. Little else remains when
Good deeds are incarcerated, kindness gets flayed, benevolence goes
Missing, solitude trumps neighborliness, fur stands on end, regularly.
Yet, no matter our choices, there exists the hope of rescue creatures.
Regardless of ambition, few chiefs give ear to captives. Irrespective
Of yesterday’s actions, iterate music belonging to sycophants, rings
Off-key. Notwithstanding insufficiently amassed wisdom, if we’re
Alive, scuttling sins brings about reclamation (no fettle’s absolute.)
No sins, no savior; aliens notwithstanding. – mh clay
Kester requested courses. Thus, Oboe, Advanced Poetry Workshop, Dynamics and Equilibria, an independent study of melanoma research, and Latin III were scheduled. Mom was a pathologist, Dad a collagen scaffold engineer, and Sis a nuclear radiologist. Kester was the rebel. That coed dropped out midterm, anyway. Family knowledge, friends’ good wishes, even lessons with a master yogi hadn’t prevented recurrence. …
Of a population that relies on public transport,
Lifelong claims concerning shared technology,
Maybe sourced from foreign realms, where
Splattered bits, forced arms preparations, spew
Counters of steel surfaces, quality checks tally.
In decades past, professional get-togethers
Meant uniting upmarket authors, star agents,
Small press operators, assorted terrorists.
Contemporary balderdash received no salute
Nor did brown does lose their arboreal safety.
The prize of a byline, career-wise, creates
Nonsense reports suitable for tossing diapers,
Rotten fish, roaches. Ain’t no sky high enough
To compensate lost limbs, martial cripplings,
Intensive care units run by the heavy-hearted.
Good news has low market value. On that we can rely. – mh clay
The gilded compère, looking after the vetting, eyeballed the night’s balladeers.
Where, in others place, people had lamely spit on winners, his hall boasted no
Fewer than eight eventual Grand Champions; his producers knew that singers
Had to inhabit personae to suit modern audiences – they were forced to scream.
One “little girl,” eliminated after two rounds, sat at home, cleaning not one, but
Two smoothbores for purposes of comeuppance. She’d read that chest and head
Were keen locations for placing holes. An officious technical director was first,
Followed by a misogynous boom operator, a bossy runner, and then an intern.
She gunned down the stage manager and gaffer, too, before taking her smoking
Weapon to her noggin. Afterwards, an aging videographer worried over many
Bits of blood, cloth, viscera (his supervisors improperly monitored nearly every
Contestant, were the worse clock-punching connoisseurs cultivating cabarets.)
editors note: Watch out! Judge with diligence the gracious winner; even more, the sore loser. – mh clay
I “read” the other abductees for you. What more do you want? “Wake up! I paid millions for you. There’s no time for sleep.” There’s no mutuality to our “contract.” “Drat! Sebastian, get me the longer pole. This one doesn’t reach.” “He’s already pretty bruised up, Boss.” “Shut up or I’ll thrash you, instead.” “I’m getting the broomstick.” And I’m …
I’m not a tip shop for your fury, a vat for your life’s slumps,
Nosedives smacking against fallen effulgence, pitted esteem.
Tumbleweeds of reduced self-respect, horizons of imbalances.
My self-worth’s maintained as my significance’s not hinged.
Even had I been a ronin, traveling from kingdom to kingdom,
There’d be no rationale to fasten my dignity to your outbursts,
To measure my self-confidence in flashes void of your ferocity,
To engage in precarious operations due to your self-contempt.
I’m no junk yard for your anger, no lamp for your “sunlight”
Wants. I’m all springtime rains evaporating in heated climes,
Dandelion fluff that disperses when winds suddenly bluster.
My quelling frown is meant as distance, disapproval, rejection.
So, remove all luteolous, all argent, all cuprous zar (substitutes).
I’ve no need of middens for company. Self-contained, I take up
With neither misuse nor cruelty, won’t cozy with mistreatment,
Flee from violence, contumely, all manner of your gifted harm.
Whatever the tinge of your mettle – here’s a tell-off template for any and all. – mh clay
The willing face of corporate chemistry continues to abuse power, to ease
Charges brought against assart bullies liberating bosses from investigation.
Captured partners, even types pleasing to look at, die one by one, anyway.
Grasp, money’s successful hooks no longer astonishing workers or media,
Whether or not demises occur suddenly, else linger like bad drain cleaners
In toilets, sinks, bathtubs, reservoirs, all contrary to healthy living. Stinks!
Members of most sales forces buck competitively-priced services, likewise
Deign to advertise, as superior products, less-than-industry standard, tripe
While accruing adoration purchased across untruths, mendacities, deceits.
They purchase consumer love via quiltbag politics, possible epigenetic
Changes, place their findings in “academic” journals of no true worth.
Five year-old-styled wisdoms won’t ever parallel weathered certainties.
Wink your weather eye to discern the fakery in the f**kery. (It’s all f**kery!) – mh clay