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19 Broken Toe Blessings on you, toe of many colors: purple as a grape, maroon as a raspberry, yellow as a ripe casaba, greenish-white as honeydew where the doctor’s adhesive pressed. I’ve been boring lately, puffy little pig. I’ve complained, “Nothing ever happens to me,“ swollen bread stick, stumpy penis gorged with blood. I was sunk in complacency with my good salary, good job, good girlfriend, writing good poems about nothing (or next to) not to offend the eight or ten good people who read them. “Goddamn it fuck shit cocksucker O Judas hump!“—it was a prayer you pulled from me, fat gouty priest, when, in the dark, I tripped on my Heater-Plus-Fan. “Motherfucking asshole goddamn slutty shit-face, fuck fuck fuck!“ A word-orgasm after long celibacy. Blessed release! How did I stand the unfractured monotony? Welcome back, pain. Welcome back, passion. Welcome back, something-to-howl-about, grist for the How’re-you-doing? mill. Remind me of the joys of walking, jump rope, running, playing footsie. Hammer home the certainty of decay, memento mori at my body’s end. 20 In the TV screen of your bruised nail, I see the usual skulls and skeletons, but also wheelchairs, triple-bypass surgeries, hit-and-runs, cancers, deaths by earthquake, flood, and killer bee. The words fragility and tenuous flow by like banners towed by blimps. I wasn’t drunk. I kicked no woman, dog, or door, though if you like to think I did, dear reader, do. Believe I broke my toe drop-kicking ninjas, if it pleases you. Simply to reach the fridge is an adventure. I hop on one leg to answer the phone. It took ten minutes, the first day, to get my shoe on. When I found that I could not depress my clutch and had to give up my day’s plans, I swore a good two minutes more, then hopped inside, crimson with rage and pride— with real conflict in my life— with an ache so sharp that when I stepped I cried “Jesus!“—with my heart’s silence broken— with something to say. ...

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