I miss his essence.
It is fleeting in leaves
that grow in all seasons,
glow in all colors,
and blow in the wind.
The beckoning on my shoulder
is a perched watchful wise owl
in a tree.
Am I dreaming of komorebi?
The warmth of your spirit
bakes fronds rustling on
the ground. With my every step
their crunchy points
speak to your essential sturdy spines.
The stillness frames a misty
watercolor memory;
a fleeting moment that
I wish could be reality.
Flare Up & Flare Down
Don't forget the Zofran
I-D elixir: stir it
up in a cup. Whatever
comes out won't be
a pretty portrait picture.
Click. Click.Click.
Nauseousness and keen
nose aromas may make me
upchuck. But
the smell, well hell it
will vacate
a room. Unfortunately, a car's
engine and your ass can't
move quick enough, to go
varoom, boom, boom. My stomach
is a bubbly calderon. My small
intestine aka ileum has particles
and liquid combos to move
back and forth, back
and forth. The ebb
and flow
of the Pacific Ocean after
the dry, why sigh,as I cry, cry. Multiple
dry heaves tumble and roar in my abdominal
walls, imaginary drum
set non stop and won't fall. My head
aims for the porcelain throne.
Flush, flush, gush
Flee, flee, fuck!
Will I need a plumber?
Or the heroism
of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck?
I can see
my open toe sandals
covered in your known what with
the illness of IBD
aka
Crohn's Disease.
The abdominal flares are
an unfit, unforgiving, unfair
puzzle piece. Screech, each leech
a continuous spinning
top. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Oh
what a relief it is--Not!
Tramadol or Charlotte's
Web. I pray these pain
relievers won't have me
press my luck. I'll be
the ostrich with its head
buried
in the sand with no feathers
being plucked, plucked, plucked.
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