new doorways & old muscles
Last night at work I walked about with a limp, bent almost double in pain. It is curious, pain simply is. It takes over our bodies much the same way the shamans of the far North allow spirits into theirs; an overwhelming experience where the ego is driven away, where there is nothing left of the soul but a blinding light. But, instead of divine conversations between the worlds, I was finding myself unable to stand due to a pulled muscle. A hazard of my work. Having bent in an odd way to help transfer a resident from bed to wheelchair my back gave out. It is odd to me that when we are healthy and far away from pain we make such a fuss over different types. Birthing pains, gun shot wounds, self-inflicted; as if any of it mattered.
This morning Eli (my brother and lead singer of the band The Monolators) sent me news that one of my favorite bands, Emm't Swank, was going to be coming together one last time for a benefit show. Like Eli, they are based in L.A. and it is with some sorrow that I cannot attend the party. Of the few times I visited my brother and Mary (my sister -in -law, drummer of the band and voice of Belle) and helped carry their amps for various shows (the gig at Mr. T's sticks in my mind) I had a blast and wish that somehow the distance between California and Michigan could be bridged a little more easier so I could see more of their shows … or any of their shows. I love The Monolators so very much.
Still, while time might be easily debated over beers we've yet to bend space and geography as easily (even with the help of Jack Daniels) so I must simply suggest to you all to check out these bands' up -coming tour dates and tell me how their shows went. I will on my back, heating pad up to 9 and listening to the soothing sounds of my lungs gurgling wetly. It sounds almost like a song.
From the back of the throat, phlegm or poem,
what we cough up is the same. Something hard
we find we cannot choke down. Hard, irksome
pain, you have become much like a barnyard
squeal, skin flick groan, slaughterhouse yap; the marred
bit of the song we skip over in haste.
Anything than to listen to those scarred
voices sing. Better to escape shame faced,
guts a pitapat, than to stay debased
by the things we have no control over.
Here is my throat, my O of mouth, the taste
of wind rising up, filling the puncture
wound of my chest; gun shot like doors, a new
doorway hole that the dark wind whispers through.