Charily at Best
I’ve tried everything save amputation, which given my state of sleeplessness seems reasonable, charily at best. The tusker implant doctor said, he did, 18 months of recovery and then some, who knows, a lifetime of bad sleep and jimmying about hopelessly. Perhaps once I’ve finished reading Gide’s rendering of Kafka’s Trial mine will seem paltry and ill infirm (ed), chary at best. If I may be so dauntless, I might compare my recent shoulder surgery to K’s arrest, trial and inability to ferret out a possible rational for the whole ordeal. Gross postmodernism at its best, worse perhaps.
Jackscrews
Jackscrews in the halberd of my shoulder
(where davit bisects railhead)
(where davit bisects railhead)
A disagreeable commode burned (censured)
Into the marrow of spoiled bone
Into the marrow of spoiled bone
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