In past diaries I've written about sparring with membranous nephropathy. Don't bother clicking the link, it will just depress you. I've written about the maddening side effects of the steroids and chemo-immune suppressants and all their unfortunate side effects. My immune system treats my own, natural-born, kidneys as if they were a foreign substance. The drugs I take to fix this tend to make things worse before they get better.
But, (Cue harmonious angelic voices & beams of sunlight through broken clouds) my last two blood draws & urine samples have shown a significant trend of improved kidney function. Without going into a lot of detail, prednisone appears to be fixing me.
I have a couple of Doctors whom I have learned to trust. The latest lab results are a testament to their considerable skills. Mrs. ruleoflaw, my family, and Lucky Angus MacPup, Dog of Wonder, have faithfully stood by me through all this. Rubyr, belinda ridgewood and Brecht, along with all the R & BL'ers at Indigo Kalliope have been there to give me a lift when I needed it. Sara R & Winglion organized a bunch of Kossacks to provide me with a lovely quilt. It is a physical reminder to me that my own struggles are part of a larger picture. DKos is a maddening troll-farm at times, but there's a community here that takes care of it's own. I learned to let it, and it took care of me.
Thank you.
You were told there would be a poem. It is below the impressionist cheese-doodle.
At the End of a Tube
Hard ribs of a man
are glued together
with spit and sealing wax.
Inward parts grow old, weaker, slower.
Grinding, clattering heaps of broken rust
settle in caves, artifacts of old dogs.
Broken man crumbles
from the inside out.
Cracks creep, spread to vital places.
Brothers and sisters shrink around a needle.
What bleeds us feeds us,
thus we fade, at the end of a tube.
Our lives are bubbles on the breeze,
abrasions on every tender surface.
Soap spots on leaves disappear in rain.
Under the eaves,
fluttering in yellow opium
wings batter glass.
Hunger for light,
desperation garners no compassion.
Bulging, golden eyes never weep.
Ears rise in wheat,
cracks and rustles in the corn.
Down rows they run.
Over hay and beans they hover.
Grasping the cattail, trill, squeal, ratchet.
Cut air, taste light, tear back birch bark.
Snout is up, ears in the wind.
Eat, sleep, run over the earth.
Cold lake filled with fear under mist.
Night crawlers couple, wrapped in moon-silk,
sliding mute from soil pipes,
reviving the earth.
My rust powders and blows
down to the sea, to the bottom of the earth
it feeds the filth of renewal.
Grasping the pocket watch,
rhythm speeds, gaze over the hedge of trouble.
Riffling marsh hay pulls east.
Any map will tell, I live in a shadow.
Cold holds in a crevice, under the ledge,
soft, familiar aches lay down on Juniper thorns.
Pulled away west, pain sticks, stays.
Sun cooks off scabs, scratching gravel shoulders.
Ruddys, readheads, and coots never look up as I pass.
INDIGO KALLIOPE:
Poems from the Left
Kalliope means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice".
In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
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