by tyson bley
Five minutes later, I could say with kind of
mystified airs that the nuclear accident had hit the spot.
It invented a new type of leather-winged orphanism.
I didn’t feel fresh in the sense of being revivified
or my color centers tickled by today’s biotech scratchiti.
I felt more like a taser-induced birth defect:
my mother saw the flying lizard predator thing
and withdrew into her warm nest but
left a leg sticking out which got nipped,
so really I was born this way. The gangrene
had spread into the milk; entire mental reaches
of unborn bubbleheads were tweaked into the
sad relaxed world-view of a stay-at-home thirsty cow,
always thirsty, always thirsty.
Always, these days, saying to ourselves: it’s gonna be a long day.
Morphine aficionados aren’t that bad, you know? They’re empowered
by the atrocious family of party-throwers.
So what? I’ve become a member, we’re a family now,
and to be paid handsomely to
in the mornings do my teeth with the deadly curse of
dentals thrown from a rooftop ensures I will never
bite the leg of someone harboring beautiful potential.
Rentals starting at $35 per morning –
these braces are virtually constructed from nest
twigs, for woodsy camouflage,
and while Super Mario Bros. drive tranquility down a suicidal path,
cripples like me invent their own board games –
to be played with new families in relative, unhobbled peace.

0 thoughts on “NESTED LIMP

  1. There are parts of this which completely baffle me, yet I just keep reading and the apocalyptic flow settles into me like a morphine drip. . .I’m left somewhat discombobulated but happy nonetheless and watching QVC for hours on end. Bravo, Bley.

  2. Some poems are tough to find the right photo for. Then we’ll choose one that doesn’t seem quite right. Then we’ll read the poem again after seeing the photo above it and think, “Well, I guess that photo works after all.” Has got to be some subliminal thing as the poem always chooses the photo.

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