Who else am I going to vote for?

Would you have me vote for the Vice-Traitor?
The half-crazed Hyena, yukking it up
While Americans struggle? I hate her.
That mad cackler makes me want to spit up
Unable to answer simple questions,
without babbling about this or that
going in all different directions
Her middle-class birth story falling flat,
not that I’m keen to listen to her lies
but to be informed, I must suffer through
in which the whole time I am agonized
by her words, her laugh, and falsehoods she spews.  
Only Trump can spare us from her Encore
So, Who else am I supposed to vote for? 

Butterscotch

 

He licked himself raw, and it happened in cycles
Growing bloody,
Oozy and seeping,
before miraculously healing
and growing peach hair before soon enough
the licking began again.

And his stools became liquid,
his incontinence creating
plentiful putrid pools around the house,
but never where he was supposed to…

I took him to the Vet again, and pointed at his wound
and his weight loss, and how it was the same ol same ol…
and they prescribed the same ol same ol…
….and took my money.

Friends told me to have him put down,
others told me to give him to adoption.
But as a father of a little girl with an Immune disorder,
how could I explain why I was having him put down,
or even put out?

I have no heart to find the words that would be
merely window dressing to a lie,
One that would comfort me would do nothing for her…
that he is draining us of money we don’t have,
So then she will think that we think the same of her?

No.

He is family, and we will keep trying.
It is the only way,
and while I have no clue where the money will come from
I will keep trying.
Because he is family,
and that’s what families do.

What Lies Beneath

 

Festering within
an oozing wound of the soul
Attempts to blot it out,
stamp it out,
Failing.…
it persists…
Festers…
taking its toll.
A sacrifice of dreams,
on an altar of hope,
Abused and advantaged with no remorse
and in silence, soul weeping in fury
at everything lost,
at what little was gained
at exorbitant cost
and seeing it all,
all in vain…
the happiness, the persistence,
the struggle, the resistance,
the surrender…
the pain…

What could be summed up in simple words,
is not proper to know.
But what lies beneath,
never to pass over the tongue or teeth
a wretched realization
as a rolling wave
to drown the heart,
 and drag the soul to a tearful grave.

What shell then, is this?
That it breathes and persists?
It is but a man….

Or at least….was once.

The Dream

I awoke from a feverish dream

body drenched and trembling

half out of the bed, 

awaking midflight, 

fleeing a world that dissolved 

with a blink of sleep filled eyes. 

As I stumbled downstairs,

the stairs now free

of rubble or debris,

I found myself stepping around shadows

of what was there moments before…

Hardness

Softness…

softness brought to ruin…

Step over. 

Step over.

The steam of my coffee

hitting and heating my face,

flashes of images, flickering flames,

my face hot from them. 

A swallow or two stirs my mind

and swirls the images 

Out of order like a glitching video.

Sound. No Sound.

Screams. Singing. Crackling. Rapid Fire in the distance

A song. A lullaby, one I know, but don’t,

I hear the rumbling, and far off hum of engines, 

wind to my back, to my front. 

Disjointed, swirling…

Static. 

It all fades to static as I come around.

I try to piece it together before it melts away

like a jigsaw puzzle made of ice.

But it drips through my fingers…

Old Route 64

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

The mama made it a happy home
for the babies that they bore,
and papa did his very best
to cover both the bills and the chores,
and to make time for mama
and those babies he adored.
But that Greedy old bastard Uncle Sam
kept papa just a shade under poor.
Working a full time job as well as his little farm
out by old route 64

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

Then the banker whores, they moved in,
and the law put a note on the front door,
Saying unless Papa paid them off in full
it wouldn’t be the family farm no more…
Now, Papa had made a promise,
it was an oath that he had swore,
just like his own daddy
and his granddaddy before:
That his wife and children
would always be well cared for,
so he rustled through his desk for the paper
that he would trade his own life for.

There’s a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.
Once a happy little farmhouse
built back before the war,
home to a growing family,
filled with happiness and love galore,
now just a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

They told mama it was a freak accident
as they sealed off the barn door,
and mama got the insurance money
but couldn’t bear to live there no more….
So papa kept his promise,
but lost his loves, his farm, and more
out by a pile of rubble
out by old route 64.

 

Reprieve

What dark thoughts encroach my mind late at night?
When all the world is tucked safely in bed?
Simple: Perhaps I should give up the fight,
For life would be better if I were dead.
The day to day battle would be no more
If I would simply lay my burden down
and in so doing, end this tired war
and accept by self Death’s mantle and crown
Would peace then attend me? Would I feel it?
Or would those cloaked their shadows steal it?

Reason, dear reader, shows the world better,
for life’s insurance would settle old scores
My family thus free, under no fetter
money to light the way, and open doors.
And it is not as though I see them now
in between overtime, and other jobs
so this is the best time to take a bow,
to minimize pain, and lessen the sobs…

This darkest thought sits with me in the night,
on my mind, on my chest, til morning light…
And sleep, when it comes, makes jest of my pain-
amplifies my fears again and again
a movie-unwanted, and yet still played
Blurrs black and white til the world is grayed…

And yet…I keep on…

And I keep on,
And I weep on,
And as the darkness continues to creep
and the fears in my mind dance and leap
and the unfairness of it all leaves me a heap
of quivering madness barely able to make a peep…
Weeping on…
I keep…keeping on

Uplifted, in moments of slipping madness
battling back the swirling sadness
by catching fleeting smiles of their own gladness…
and my madness, my sorrows, known only to me
for a moment don’t exist, and I am set free,
like Atlas when relieved by Hercules
and the world is gone…
and we can just…
be…

Street Surgeon

Some folks turn into serial killers due to something within that is broken. It may be spiritual, a darkness within that swirls about their soul and causes them a twisted excitement as they see the life drain from the eyes of their victims.

Absolutely detestable.

There are those who are broken mentally. Consumed by hatred, or anger, they lash out at a specific typecast victim that is a mortal effigy of those whom they wish to harm but cannot.

Totally pitiful.

Some become serial killers by accident.

Now, I was not supposed to be a veterinarian. I was supposed to be a doctor.  A surgeon. A skilled blade that could help anyone with anything. That was the plan anyway, though much like most of my plans, it kind of deviated along the way.

The path that led me to being unable to go through med school and resorting to animal medicine is about as convoluted as what led me to practicing surgery in the dark of night on people who were sort of willing. Or at least would have been had they been with it. My first unfortunate victim, if some insist on calling him such, was a fellow by the name of Martin. I don’t know if that is a first name or last name. I just knew him as Martin, and he hung out down the block from my office. Every day, he would ask for enough change for coffee until I just told him to come on down and get a fresh cup from my building.

It was through the little conversations over the course of the next couple weeks that led me to suspect he was having gallbladder issues. Now, to be fair, I did tell him he should go to the hospital. I told him it was serious, and that he could die, but he laughed at me.

A few days of his grumbling of midnight pains, and vomiting, as well as some yellowing of his skin, and I had to act. I spent the weekend studying. That Monday, I told him to meet me there later that night, tell no one, and I would see if I had anything in the cabinets that could help. His eyes lit up, and I knew that I had said just the thing to convince him to come in. An offer of pills? The only thing that could have made it a sweeter deal is if I had offered free booze.

That night, he came walking up the alley as I had directed him and knocked on the back door. I looked hard down both sides of the alley to ensure that no one had accompanied him, followed, or was watching before I let him in. He entered the surgery room with some expectation, and he was not disappointed, as I had left a couple blank labeled bottles on the desk. As he leaned over to inspect them, I jumped to action with the chloroform-soaked rag. After I wrestled his limp body onto the operating table, I gassed him to keep him under for a while.

Cutting away his filthy clothes was a chore, and I knew that it would make it even more difficult to keep things sanitary and sterile, but I did my best. Operating by oneself has some drawbacks that a proper ER surgeon would not know about.

The initial incision went well. I cut slowly, and deliberately, doing my best to make sure that I would leave as dignified a scar as possible. Now, up to this point, I have only watched videos and read online texts in regard to the surgery, so I had never seen a gallbladder in real life, let alone had my fingers on one. Even though I thought I was prepared properly about what to expect via research and my experience on animals, a human subject was new to me.

Martin either had a lower tolerance for what I gave him, or I fouled up on how much I should have given him. Either way, suddenly, he gasped a big breath of air, and let out a scream at the precise moment that I was making an incision to remove the diseased organ. I accidentally sliced it open, spilling bile everywhere inside the abdominal cavity. That would have been a disaster by itself, except that Martin was now awake, confused, in pain, and struggling to get away from me. Blood spilling through his dirty fingers as he attempted to hold himself closed with one hand, and push me away with the other, he tried backing away. His shoes, soles smoothed to nothing long ago, slipped quickly on the linoleum flooring, and his head came down on the operating table, and I heard what I instinctively knew to be his neck breaking.

I would be lying if I didn’t stand there for a good few minutes just staring at the mess, and silently cursing at his corpse. A quick cleanup and short drive later, and that is how Martin became my first failed patient, as well as my first kill.

I have gotten quite good since then. Some folks accept my help willingly due to being afraid of getting arrested or committed if they try to go to the clinic or the hospital, so I have the basics down pat. Larger surgeries are a wee trickier, and the willing are hard to come by. So, with some determined survelience, and some careful scheduling, I can usually obtain my patients from the homeless.

While those who survive never seem to report the procedures, those who do not have given me quite a bit of grief. Not only are they testimony to my failures and shortcomings as a Doctor, but they have led to something of a small media sensation calling my failures the work of a modern “wanna be” Jack the Ripper.

The only good thing about the media following my work, is it has been described as “Less Grotesque”, and one reporter commenting that I am “Really refining” my skills.  Rave reviews, if there could be any…