Seriously thinking about writing a poem about noobs. When you get to yon crossroads, beware. I turned back, watchman, aye, so sprung from whence and hence remain, away in discomfiture. I wake up, check the color of spit, and apprise myself of cubes. On the meds, on the mend, not quite there. Lucky there, red and black blood on my face and hands, drooling out my mouth and nose, nasal gore shower. I owe my life to a knife, and my parents. I had gut trouble. A deep split. Cut and reglued, some intestine, the subsequent hernias ground the grit, polished scalpels and forceps, a family divorce, more surgery and scars. Asthma got me. Aye, Chihuahua, I cannot deal. Coughing so hard, blood spill. The effluvia decayed in my inflamed sinus. Brooked a nostril and drained on my arm and bedding. Coughing spasms ripped my foul head open. It started with dogwoods, but I inhaled the ash from the dying Russian, besieged Ukraine. The rain falls to gather them again in fields of precious grain. If the poppies of Armistice are to remain in the pastures, then why should they get fenced by Victory Day? Poppies to launder, they decorate my mud, They drain down my sink in bright clots. Purged with saline. The pressure ebbs. Thoughts return. Designed, stretched out Like a costume, I put myself back on again. My wounds enveigh victory gin.
The poem is arranged in two parts. Each part has ~75 syllables. The poem prenatal illness that catalyzes my asthma. The last line of each part has four syllables.
My thoughts drift to Ukraine. I am recovering from a brutal illness, and I am thanking the surgeons who saved me, but now they should perhaps sew up Ukraine. I get sick thinking about Armistice Day. Senseless chaos followed by requiem.