Sunday, May 3, 2009

Adder Suns

I am tired of being tired
From here to eternity
The Adder Suns burning holes
Through paper dolls like focused 
Beams from the magnifying glass
Packing eyes like carpet bags
Dark and thick as oxblood soup 
Fill the mornings heavy 
With black hole gravity

Who ripped my Earth from its solar bounds
And skewed its orbit so?
Defy Cupernicusian law 
And pull me into you
The Adder Suns belie the moon 
And lunar tidal pull
Circadian rhythm makes no sound 
Without percussion’s tools
Sleeping Ursa’s winter 
Without the hope of spring
We fill the lamp with oil
Never more than flickering

Sunday Scribblings - Confessions?  Hi, my name is Michael and I have Addison's Disease (Adder Suns). This is actually the third poem I've published here that relate to dealing with this illness.  I offered no description to "Serpentine" and "Flat" , so these are also expressions of my experience as well.


  1. You know, “The Bayman’s Blues” paralyzes me. From the first chord I melt, squish down to goo, am helpless ‘til silence cuts into sand, and then there’s a sadness, even though I know I can hit “Play" again. Why? The power. It’s the power of the Almighty Hook, comes to most creative types maybe once, twice in a lifetime, more if we’re lucky. And I suppose, regarding Addison’s, there’s a sadness and you can hit “Play” and “Hydrocortisone,” never more than flickering, and then it’s sand, carpet bags, angelic battlefields, mud locking around your humanness so your spirit can’t fly, but I don’t know, don’t really know in person what that’s like. My only knowing is in terms of seeing, seeing time being used, seeing your verses, hearing your music, and as painful as all of life is for us humans with our ills, I call you one of the lucky ones, and I think of asking, “Do you know what I mean, music man?” and then I think I don’t really need to be asking you that... I only know enough to know I’m glad you’re here doing what you’re doing.

  2. Miss A - I hope I'm not coming off with a certain "Reid-ness". I do feel I am a lucky man, blessed in fact. I don't ever feel sorry for myself. I lost one of my best friends to a massive heart attack. He died in his sleep at age 36. Wife and 2 kids left behind. Another dear friend a victim of breast cancer at 35. They discovered a mass hours after she gave birth to her third child. She lost a year long battle. I feel sorry for them, sorrier still for the families they left behind. So yes, I know what you mean. I've known of my illness for about a year now and under treatment since last summer. I'm still searching for hormonal harmony, if you will. The sadness is mostly a feeling of lost control. I can hit "Play" with the hydrocortisone and keep keeping on. Despite it, we have to accept that the viper will sneak up and bite us in the ass. There is no synchronicity to it. The mud and the battlefields are mostly pre-treatment. And would be the fate of anyone prior to the creation of man made steriods in the 1950's. So, once again, I am a lucky man to be living in these times and not destined to drown in the quicksand. I'm happy to know your sharing my wavelength. It's fuel for my soul.

  3. Michael: What a fine trilogy of poems / lamentations. I like the transfiguration of Addison's to Adder Suns: how ominous the serpentine eyes, as if they mesmerize the body into immobility. Your "oxblood soup" set me off on an odd associational tangent, to the strange carnage of an oxbow lake I stumbled upon in Mississippi, a veritable vulture's mausoleum.

    Best wishes to you. I good-naturedly chided you a bit over at Ms Alister's, regarding your (to my mind) unnecessary modesty about what "you don't know" about certain aspects of writing. I see little difference between your sung narratives and those of ours that stay on the page. You pack character and plot and poetry into your wonderful narratives, strapping on some additional challenges in beats and, occasionally, rhyme. Similar to the wonder and fun I find in writing flash fiction. And remember too, yours is the more ancient art.

  4. Reid-ness? No. I pulled down a whole lot of emotion from I am tired of being tired from here to eternity probably mostly because I despise, not just dislike, feeling dragged out, run down, gravity pulling hard, ruling hard. Your words gave some high def graphics and I was flowing and going, didn’t come off exactly right if I felt to you like I was telling you a thing or two. I wouldn’t be a good one to do that since I don’t take being ill very well, meaning I’m hard-pressed to feel lucky when I feel bad. Give me spunky and zinging, fast-flying : )
    Reading this flashed me back to some memories of my own along those lines, involving people I knew during my years in Texas: a similar situation with being diagnosed with cancer after childbirth and getting replacement hormones fine-tuned. Now that last one, whoo! Poor young woman after a hysterectomy was possessed by the devil until they got it right.
    I think we’re all connected on a certain level, more connected with some than others, and although I’m very aware of your existence and wavelength, I mostly came by because this is your place. And sometimes it’s good to be goofy : )

  5. I had to come back and read this again and do a little distancing before I commented. Different circumstances but still, dealing with a critical illness has some aspects that are universal. The feeling weighed down and being tired of being tired - kind of made me suck in my breath. Not being in control? Been there too. Loved this poem and love your music too! Thank

  6. hmm - my thank you got cut off LOL What I started to say was thank you for sharing your gift.

  7. Paschal - It's odd sometimes where the imagery comes from. The transfiguration just happened in the moment. Perhaps the seed was planted earlier in Serpentine, I don't know. The sound of "adder suns" I pictured first as "adder sons". I juggled the spelling and sun invoked the subsequent flow of astronomical metephor. Definately a case of silencing the ego and letting the whispers come through, as Ms. A said.

    I hear you on the chiding. But I take it in stride. I feel a little bit reserved in this literary arena as I have never exposed myself to it. The prose is sometimes overlooked in the musical community where I am used to sharing. And the discourse here is a whole lot more cerebral. Which I am enjoying immensly! My writing is much like my instrumental playing. That is, mostly improvised and academically illiterate. I can barely read music, let alone write it. Words, like notes and rhytms, simply "sound right" to me. Or they don't. That's not to say I haven't "studied" music. I've aurally digested ear-years of music of every sort over the last three decades. There's been quite a bit of osmosis ongoing.

    Miss A - I'm still funkin' loopy that someone has actually transcribed my lyrics from a recording (pretty damn well I might add). I've had my tuning fork resonated a few dozen times by other artists enough to do that. That is a very high compliment to me, thanks. And then you write such a vividly brilliant tale from its inspiration? Humbling.

    Dee - Thanks for coming back!!! I can read all the little statistical widgets and can see that this one is pinging. I'm guessing some are not quite sure how to comment given the nature of the subject. And that it's a non-fictional confession. I didn't think I should say it at first. One sometimes thinks of confessions in association with shame. I am not the least bit shameful. But outside of my closest friends and family, few people know I've been dealing with this. Only a few at work know about it. Mostly because I refuse to be defined by it. And also because my resolve gives me strength to put up with the discomfort. Thank you for sharing as well!

  8. You describe the exhaustion perfectly!

  9. Hey, music man. Dropped out of sight for several days, had to finish a telecom project I’d had slow-bleeding on my desk, in my head, hurting like a thorn festering there. My employer was comin’ at me with tweezers for it. No, no, no, I’ll get it out myself and give it to ya! Gladly. So I did. I finished the GD thing. Six miles of misery in Austin, TX. Done. Today.
    Now then, about bein’ funkin’ loopy: yes, yes, me too, and now we must make sure the lyrics are juuust right. Words are sacred, must be as “juuust right” as humanly possible. "Pretty damn well" won’t cut it, so tell me what to fix, my man, for I stand ready to further dignify—do justice to—your inspired lyrics : )

  10. As a fellow "Addisonian," I am moved by your poetry. I will be visiting again. Your friend in Adrenal-Land, Lana. I'm at --- Thanks for sharing yourself & your art.