Category Archives: Writing

Diamonds Hung: Revolutionary IMproVerse Free Verse Poem

Orion’s Belt hung
on the west canyon rim,
like three diamonds
on the velvet black counter
of God’s cosmic jewelry store.

I didn’t ask to buy them,
for they were already in
my possession,
and the experience,
next to the rushing river rapids,
under a waxing half moon,
caressed by the cool canyon breeze,
was priceless.

I simply pointed at the three diamonds,
smiled,
and thanked my Heavenly Shopkeeper .

Proof arrhythmic: white men can dance – – revolutionary improv haiku

I’m living proof that/
A white man CAN dance when he/
ain’t got no rhy… thm.

Said while passing the nurses’ station, following my failed heart ablation procedure… They say they are going to “put it on the board.”
Followed by my quip:
“I’ll be up all evening$!”

Patch Adams I’m not: Revolutionary blogging prose

Orange rind post op smile

After fasting for several meals before my heart procedure, I finally got to eat. I put two slices of orange between my gums and teeth. When the nurse came in and ask how I was doing, I said “My teeth hurt when I smile.”
Then I smiled at her.
She asked: “Do they only hurt when you eat? or all of the time?”
I said: “It was a joke, See?” And I smiled even more broadly at her so she could see the orange rinds.
“Oh.”
Ouch.

What Should I Announce? Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

I stare
into the linoleum void.
Cold it is.
Cold I feel.
Not so cold
as I could soon be.

Inhospitable
hospital.

Why?
My heart,
though stronger,
still ain’t
got
no
rhy-
thumumum.

So masked men
must stop-start it
again,
wire me up,
make me tubular,
give me the ultimate
heart burn.

Cauterize
my over-sized pump
that’s too energized.
That won’t sing: Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.

I hope it works
this time.
But if it doesn’t?
Who should I tell
that I might not return?

My mother worries enough
for the world.
She makes every
small
procedure
into some giant event.
Munchhausen by proxy.

So,
if I go,
I know
she’ll tell,
but probably
only my family.

My friends?
What of them?
She won’t know.

Perhaps Facebook quiet
will spread the word.
If you haven’t heard
by Saturday,
that I’m out …
I’m probably not.
Or maybe
I permanently
am.