Out of Order

its broken.

kinda like the sweet sparrow
dropping hard from its nest
its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth
eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not
to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind

that it has a broken wing.


i wonder if I can fix it.
be the invisible cast crimson in creation
where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable
and comfortable existence.

its discarded.

merely a decomposed state of composition
hidden with maggots and live insects
swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh
exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there,
a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted
in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups
that once again,
someone will throw away.
and I wonder.


wonder if I can fix it. 
be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on 
supple skin, avoiding infection and 
regaining cellular regeneration.

 its shattered.

a small piece of glass giving way of
a thousand shards electrified by the morning glory of the sun
reflected in bursts of prisms that personified what used to be
a whole but is not even a half of a half of a half any longer. and it cuts.
deep, dark, slashing waves into the
epidermis causing tickled shock waves to scream to the lungs
burst into bright red fury as blood seeps back from the wound
and the glass is no longer a worry-

because its numb.


and I wonder if I can fix it.
Be the soothing medicine in complacent veins
hurried by white coats and gloved hands in its 
antiseptic rain. Be the last hope in the case of a DNR
sealed in a thousand flow sheets of a green chart
ending up as a repulsive scar.


so numb.

Novocaine and earth bound hallucinogenics have
nothing on the none-ness of what's not felt as skin becomes
nothing more but a sagging wasteland of unfelt wrinkles
untouched goosebumps and ignored curves. because numbness is desired,
wans to be felt, wants to be the oxymora the unfolds to thee
because nothing felt is better than pain applied

to

me. and i wonder. and remember. when this broken, discarded, shattered numb
tomb became the vessel which i have once loved and shared memories with.
shattered
discarded
 and broken.
no one lines up to save me from me.
and i carry these wounds
outward
exposing the world to

see.


what is broken?


-b.r.rivera
#30in30
Poem 19 of 30, April 2012