Share croppers to lords–
when company preaches,
do you hide?
It may be best to twist their truth,
to misalign, to set-up–fall.
Hidden with microphones, headsets,
cameras, and computers computing the winner
of tic tac toe.
Recording reactions, intentions of sullied laughter from muddy hearts.
Deadened decline to contamination–and “can you limbo lower?”–
to go nose to nose with disrepute?
Lofty responsibility to so-called ‘truth’ brought forth from the mind
where they the stoned the woman–
cowards with buried shame deep inside
where it festers and convulses like beetle juice in
a boiling pot seasoned with snakes and snails and toenails–
clippings, stirred into her un-cried tears,
let that tear your heart
and unblock the art.
Angels who float on ballooned thoughts
guided by essence of ancient wisdom,
call on the bread of life.
He who thirsts, waters not the tears of vocal cries.
Did we all love Orwell’s book? The plot, genius;
the players pawns, the secrets uncovered
to prove her wrong–
and so you looked? You shared? You talked about?
Let’s walk about, inside your mind . . .
some so very poor, have golden coin, and that’s all they know.
Curious can they walk or step in new red-soled shoes,
as if to say look at me I’ve strode ahead.
And yet they do, and some fool us too,
as if to say, they know He’s true
yet distant, too.
Oh silly dog who cannot ask
for kindred under-
standing. There sits, poised
Offerings to He who knows knot
and teaches, like how to untwist the purloined artery
with blockage caused from gold dust
coursing through the vanity of the mind.
Sylvia, friend of no one,
Milk and bead.
And here we sit, shall we drink some wine
and talk about our walk about?
I have moonshine,
and in poverty
am lower than the
vagrants who poured communal water
on frozen bread. And taught the lessons
of survival. Community enfolded
to those who asked.
And ask I did but door stayed closed
and phone rang seldom
in present time
but those who care on flattened screen
reach out with unfelt fingers into
There is a point,
that even this is not enough.
And sometimes we need coins in our cup.
A woman cannot eat on good intentions
nor get a job without connections.
Minority, you see, to be post side of
middle aged and white and without money.
De-s-crime-in-ate the bitter pill of discontent
in circumstances others invent and now I vomit
up the truth,
the purging of the bile hatred,
and sit in silence, unlikely,
for once the gates grace your admittance
they are ever after open.
One thought on “Medical – – – Man-u-el”
I’ve read through twice now, and it feels like a verbal purging of so much held in.