survivor

first I had to learn to scoot,
before I learned to crawl.
and before I learned to walk,
I had to learn to tumble, tumble, tumble.
(and dive. down a flight of stairs. in a plastic walker.
thank you seventies for shag carpet.)

I was bred to be a survivor from the beginning.

I am a three course meal these days,
an appetizer, entree, and dessert of emotions.
I have no idea how I taste,
but I've heard your adjectives.
is your tongue numb to being full?

(I am trying my best to be a good meal.
if you complain to the manager,
I may stir atomic heartburn.)

I wanna be where the writers are.
closing down a dark dive bar,
whiskey and ginger in my left,
black ink fading in my right.

(but it's 4:32 a.m. and I am in bed,
tapping on my smart phone, nursing a nine inch scar.
insomnia is to writer's block 

what prune juice is to constipation.
word flow.  

finally.

so what if I'm in bed.)

look at these dark medals that hang under my eyes.
I have earned these swollen circles.

I am a survivor,
of writer's block
kidney death
miracles
an Irish catholic clan of nine lads and lasses
depression
divorced parents
miracles
homophobia
unfaithful lovers
miracles
the death of my father
the dying of my mother
diving down that damn flight of stairs before I was one.
and more.

watch me move today.
really watch me.
(I'm not just what you see,
nor just what your tongue tastes.)

I am a survivor,
of miracles and tragedies

and I respectfully own them 
all.

five words

sitting inside a house for four weeks
makes four weeks feel like four score and some years ago.
the clock becomes a foe
the computer, a square best friend.

(to socialize with more than two people requires a bacterial mask,
which sometimes feels a tad bit excessive.
however, the alternative is not a possibility.)

i miss my classroom, coded handshakes and high-fives with students.
i miss driving to the drugstore when i need toothpaste.
i miss feeling sexy.
i miss sweating on an elliptical.
i miss the sound of a packed Lucky's on a Sunday morning.
i miss feeling a live bass guitar thumping in my chest.
i miss the sound of my voice erupting into a microphone.

my head tells my body:  "you have a new kidney!"
my body tells my head: "be patient, excited head."
my doctor tells my head and body: "you are more fragile than you were before transplant."
my head and my body sit.
quiet.

i'm seeking comfort in this loneliness.
i'm seeking to re-enter the world with electric passion.  ZING!
i'm seeking a way to pay my bills.
i'm seeking eternal caffeine for this spiritual awakening.
i'm seeking to understand my new body, my new life, my new career, my new identity.

seeking.  see king.  see queen.  me.

i was up last night from one to three am, staring at words about toxins pumped into me.
how is it that something so vital to saving my life can create problems that would take it?
pharmaceutical conundrum.

i wanna cry sometimes.  i do.

but i have five words that give my tears perspective.

she gave me her kidney.

(erase the 279 other words above. they are just noise.)