Ed Ruzicka Verse-Virtual 2017 February

February 2017

I am a rehabilitation occupational therapist privileged to work with the elderly in the sleepy to smouldering city of Baton Rouge. Off days I spend many hours alone in a room I built in order to reach a different form of deep connection through writing. I have a website at www.edrpoet.com

Things Not On My Bucket List

Picnic on Three Mile Island. Gluten-free
beer guzzles. Rubbing on black face to
tease cops about their wee, wrinkled Willies.
Cleveland. The Brunswick alleys of Iowa.

Yet another family reunion where Aunt Blanche
drones on about how fabulous her lawyer
son’s life has become. Attending a week long
Trekkie convention mid-February in Toledo.
Being in the same hotel bathroom as Donald Trump.

Gulping Viagra with any bimbo named Wanda.
To polka with a skirt in Polish-frills whose flab
and exuberance overflow even her shiny black shoes.
Ordering easy-over with corned beef hash at a
Milwaukee George Webb’s and the concomitant
trip to an E. R. to get the old arteries reamed.

Checking in to see a Facebook post of Ronnie
from accounting sailing the Aegean. Canoeing
the Cuyahoga. Sunset over the L. A. county dump.
Hearing even Cere exclaim, “Well, ain’t that just
like you.” Goofy golf in Lima. Waking up after
a full-on bender in a veteran's hospital with
a colostomy bag attached to my innards.

Living to 106 only to watch the 184th Run
for the Roses announced by a Bob Costas
who hasn’t aged a hair. Watching snow crystals
dissipate above an industrial chimney in Akron.

Breaking News

Noted gastroenterologist Dr. T. W. Medrennic recently
stated that observation of Donald J Trump's behavior
both before and after the November ninth election
has led him to surmise that our president elect
suffers terribly from hemorrhoids. That hemorrhoids
shoot this chief executive du jour bolt upright
in barely manageable corkscrews of agony all
odd hours of New York’s blank, immutable night.

Wake the legendary real-estate mogul up to roundly
bid him pace beside plate glass. Flip through channels.
Bite into hot bursts of radishes - an ancient remedy
long-favored in the Slavic villages where Melania was raised
by crones and teated on Communist doctrine by her Marxist father.

In hemorrhoidic rage the Don flips through news cycles.
Tweets fly out as some form of relief. Relief which
certainly can’t come by sitting down on the suckers
at the daily briefs intelligence agents dole with dry disdain.
Another factor easily explained once you get the picture.

Imagine, as the good doctor does, how that famous
orangutan orange crop atop Trump’s cranium
is also complimented on the backside with iridescent
blue and scarlet hues of boil-brewed rage on our
future master’s bum - shaded toward baboon below.

Breaking Down Here

In one nightmare everyone
at the bank, everyone in the grocery,

every man idling at every red light
had Donald Trump hair. Hair

sprung out atop each cranium tangerine
and thin as cotton candy. Everywhere.

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