Zen and the Art of Bursitis Relief

Kyrie eléison,
I have lived a life supported by accurate predictions.
The Dale sports car three-wheel design never did work and
seduction of the vehicle’s beautiful marketeer could never work.
Any marriage in Chowchilla only invites frustration.
Selfies at Pamplona develop into interesting pictures
and derive derision from the internet because
of the visual rodomontade.
St. Thomas Aquinas never did anticipate
his suffering concupiscence, asking if we are sheep or swine.
If he had ever lived in Papua New Guinea,
he would have never contemplated such a question.

The happy clown was contracted to provide entertainment
at the happy child’s joyous, happy, joyous birthday party.
The happy clown did not show but did send a purple dinosaur.
Nonfeasance. The purple dinosaur did not bring or furnish
any of the prepaid animal balloons, the elephant, baboons.
Misfeasance. Then the dinosaur fed Alice B. Toklas muffins
to the ragamuffins and they all got high, one drowned
in the pool. Malfeasance.
Malfeasance in the perfectly chlorinated pool.
First, catch your hare,
then follow Mrs. Beeton’s guide to household management.

My credenza contains a vanishing assortment of porcelain,
silver salvers which have overheard their share of embolalia,
the automatic trite remarks uttered over tepid dinners,
muttered from manicured ladies enfeoffed to their femininity,
responded in kind by the basest troglodyte I know: Me.
Little creepy dance, folie á deux, exposing my degenerate art,
The china plates shrug as if I spoke in Occitan
although I feel as if I have won the Fields Medal.
How can I not be the object of God’s wrath?
All the missionaries ever sent to Madagascar
could never hope to change the laws of nature
so successfully.
Tertullian could never be so satisfied,
while eating popcorn and gummy bears,
watching this dance of the damned.

Siddhartha dreamed a bird died.
I dreamt The Dream of Gerontius.
Siddhartha escaped the Samanas.
I’m stuck in these stained pajamas.
Siddhartha fucked and impregnated Kamala,
what a lucky motherfucking mysterian,
I never walked away unscathed,
my ex-wife still constricts
her unforgiving fist around my neck
whenever I engage in erotic asphyxiation.

Sanctus Fortis, Trisagion,
the snakes have rotted in my liver
while I slept exhausted by the river.
I can’t count how many times I’ve popped my knuckles
only to let the worms loose for the day of my doom.
PROFICISCERE,
have you ever faced the heavens and found them empty?
I did this morning when I had to lay down on the carpet
and lift my leg up on the coffee table for relief.
I don’t need to wonder how I will grieve the loss of a son,
a thief, forever unborn,
I already know.

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About Rumrazor

Just a malcontent surviving in Los Angeles, working the news, writing the poetry, making the films.
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