Every night's an arthritic, pissed off bird
careening through sleep's misshapen spinal
cord, throbbing without surcease. If its skull
could speak, what would it say? Undeterred,
would its mouth shape tongueless tidings or slurred
debate, sentences locked in a rhinal
snort or rasping like a scratchy vinyl
recording? And what could be more absurd
than left hip provoking right foot's bone spur?
Than neck inciting shoulder, arm and back?
I try to insert my will but receive
only the bump and grind of joints refer-
ring pain, the menace of muscles gone slack,
the joke they conceal. Oh how they deceive!
careening through sleep's misshapen spinal
cord, throbbing without surcease. If its skull
could speak, what would it say? Undeterred,
would its mouth shape tongueless tidings or slurred
debate, sentences locked in a rhinal
snort or rasping like a scratchy vinyl
recording? And what could be more absurd
than left hip provoking right foot's bone spur?
Than neck inciting shoulder, arm and back?
I try to insert my will but receive
only the bump and grind of joints refer-
ring pain, the menace of muscles gone slack,
the joke they conceal. Oh how they deceive!
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Robert Okaji holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, toiled as a university administrator, and once won a goat-catching contest. Two years ago he was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer, which he finds terribly annoying. But thanks to the wonders of modern science, he still lives in exotic Indianapolis with his wife—poet Stephanie L. Harper—stepson, cat and dog. He is the author of Our Loveliest Bruises (3: A Taos Press, 2025), His Windblown Self (Broadstone Books, 2025), and multiple chapbooks, including Buddha's Not Talking and Scarecrow Sees.
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