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 didnâ€™t feel fresh in the sense of being revivified
or my color centers tickled by todayâ€™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: itâ€™s gonna be a long day.
Morphine aficionados arenâ€™t that bad, you know? Theyâ€™re empowered
by the atrocious family of party-throwers.
So what? Iâ€™ve become a member, weâ€™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 â€“
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 â€“
to be played with new families in relative, unhobbled peace.