by Cynthia Lott Vogel
Something is there....
It rudely elbow-shoves its way into my peaceful sleep,
Tossing aside my dreams like fist-fighting TV ninjas accost an opponent.
It screams its way through the darkness splitting the silence with an alarm shrill as an
Ambulance shrieks terror into the night.
A raucous pain as unwelcome as a 4 a.m. wake-up call.
Pain starts at my exploding head and screams its way down my spine,
Numbing my lumbar-stump legs and splitting those wooden appendages as cleanly as
An ax might fell a mighty oak.
Faith music sings into the night mocking my pain
(Or is it the other way around?)
The sweet tunes and their lilting joy oppose and are made foolish by
The unholy sacrilege of agony.
The joyful tones become the heresy
As the profanity of pain assumes the throne...
Spewing its vulgar vernacular
which then becomes my mother tongue.
A becoming as unbecoming as they come.
This is the cross:
A bloody debauchery of Promise.
A spectacle of suffering that abases every hope
of Life reigning glorious and is rather,
A revolting depravity of expectation.
It calls to question
every assumption of life and self.
And challenges every fiber of Belief in my being;
Squashes every aspiration of my future.
But those concerns are the background drumbeat to the
Melody line of agony.
The immediate thing
to be tackled (by) is the present tensing of every fiber
and the shrill cackle of a tone-deaf singer
-to whom Music is a foreign tongue-
Who shrieks her way into my morning and
Launches the paroxysm of dance's mockery:
The convulsing contortions;
My body's gyrations to her tune
in its efforts to Find. Some. Relief. NOW.
Hand shaking top popping pill dropping
water guzzling desperate measures
come from desperate people
In desperate times of desperate need.