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Move’s Mud

 
Pate for surgeons’ resumes,
my strong physique is born
of geyser sprays of will,
thick collagen for billets
and bullets of insatiable goals.
I walk upon the lip of blood.
Motion’s carrot, brittle bent,
a Cadillac that runs the risk
of getting repossessed so fast,
so suddenly by flipped collapse.

Blisters are a kissing cousin
always on the edge of form.
My territory:  question marks.
I never know where legs will land.
How bad I’ll steep in agony
from scaling simple parking lots.
My life a darker shade of brown
because move’s mud
has ruled so long.

The meat-loaf waltz
and wincing eyes.
I wear them both like
liver rinsed in iodine.
A plastic, tall Napoleon,
my courage hand is slipped
in shirts of mortal
on the edge of lose.
I touch the breast of tragedy.
Discover rubber canonized
by effort’s crucial chemistry--
not the strength and dignity
you’ve stapled to my frame of mind.

 - Janet I. Buck

to Janet    to Moongate