Sick of It

I wanted to write — I truly tried to write
about the tarnished orb of the harvest moon,
the jewel brilliance of burning bushes,
the fat squirrel flying his bouncing balloon tail,
but my body wanted to cough and cough,
gasp for breath until my ribs ached;
my voice rasped, my nose dripped snot.
Then the time changed and I couldn’t reset
the car clock let alone my circadian rhythms.
 
My thoughts continuously crackled static about our sick
world, especially the country I want to love
where I grew up in near poverty but without violence.
Short clips, long articles, continuously tell me
how rich old men send ill-educated young men
to wars with a specious purpose and without an end;
how drug companies have co-opted doctors
to addict people, even unborn babies, to pills
only the dying in their final throes could not abuse;
how men with and without power grab and grope
and see women of all ages as only tits and cunts;
how men whose grandfathers slaughtered millions of bison,
now eat “buffalo wings” and collect arsenals of guns;
how police always shoot to kill, even the unarmed;
how Bully-Boy Big Shots threaten nuclear annihilation
and our abundance of home-grown sickos stalk
concerts and churches spurting deadly bullets as if
they were sowing Satan’s semen into the womb
of a world that has forgotten “do unto others…”
 
These thoughts and images crowd my befuddled brain.
I don’t get sick often so I don’t have enough tissues.
I don’t eat buffalo wings and don’t even have a TV
but “the world is too much with me." I want to go
transgender: I’ve just got to paw the ground, snort,
toss my long sharp horns, gore the rodeo rider.
But aged, powerless, female as I am, I can only rant.
 


Retired from a 20+ year career as an off-off-Broadway playwright, I moved to Cape Cod to concentrate on a much researched biography. Meanwhile I am writing poetry, fiction and other prose, some of which has been published in literary magazines.