Poetrymanusa Michael Lee Johnson has seen the Easter Bunny and it is thirty feet tall.  Experience Linda Cancer:

 

Lina Cancer

 

Linda Cancer (V3)
By Michael Lee Johnson

Doctor report $223,694.23
in debt, confirm I am ill.
This chemotherapy kills not this cancer, but me.
I walk around during
my day knowing I am dying of cancer.
I place smiles on my face as a testimony of courage.
Hopscotch, the games begin.
Tumors traveling from a hangman’s noose
around my aorta, it squeezes it dances in laughter,
it skips out, hops, shoves the savagery of itself
like a small canon ball up my cranium.
It spreads like morphine; overdose of Coumadin.
This cleavage of cancer is sleazy.
I own a mask of many colors
hallucinate on my face.
I transform my children.
I preempt being a divorced marriage closer.
Extra time is the slut of my life, yes, redemption.
This ill-fit wig comes alive on my baldhead.
I stare psychopathically into the daylight, the night.
I have passed through tar pitched negativity.
I have bleached my friends, my Jesus, church choir,
my children drenched in reality.
I know the devil seeks sleep not life.
I rebel show love, character to all.
I watched myself watch my daughter marry lover early October 2009.
I refuse to beg or curse God; I still sing in a local church choir.
I do not know what is more potent, revengeful.
I hand delete many sentences in my life.
Death only is perfect and so quiet.
I play duty who is conductor of this symphony.
Death only is tags, strings attached like cello,
malformations, verbal stutter hawk of philosophy.
Jesus cramps in devil for vacations.
Life is a wrester of issues, engaged, with others.
My breath is short, explosions of happiness.
My words and my life are short.
I remember my true friends at our condominium.
I am a female soldier of positive thought.
I bank deposits on all my friends.
Last, my days I switch over Halloween
to summer carnivals, circus acts.
Those suppers you offered I remember.
Now in heaven I spend my time in transitions.
I find myself in fragments at times like most poets.
These dark skies are turning florescent yellow dawn.
Tell Michael, on our condominium board, he needs to learn to write,
check his spelling and grammar, keep working hard at this poem.
Being here I roller skate to music from the sixties:
Sweet Caroline/You Lost That Loving Feeling/It’s The Same Old Song.
I now toss candy kisses on surfaces of clouds beneath me,
squeeze these last stripes of licorice candy make it all melt.
That chemotherapy killed not my cancer, but me.
I freeze fragments of it, poison in a jar,
turn loose chemo to flames of sun.
Send me postcard from earth, run away.

Last doctor reports $453,495.32.
Debt confirms I was ill.

-2010-
(R 2014)

 

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