Quickie*

Three feet below eye-level,
the horizontal struggle is a vicious incline
pushing past pebbles that reflect my stare.

The bumps in the road keep my attention.
Staccato, lento, together in a forward motion.
Crowds of bipeds whiz past me, over me, gone.

Electric, manual, assisted, we all meet in the middle—
wheelchairs travel to the cacophony of silence.
Heads tilted, saliva wanders down our chins.

I smile, you smile, the chain of drool now broken.
Our roads split on the horizon, but our paths will soon
converge—the ground pulls us in too easily.

Darkness gets us going as we yearn to reach the light,
our journey measured in inches
as blades of grass blow softly at our wheels.

A tail wind from your wheelchair whistles in my face,
mocking my forward motion.
I look skyward for help.

Instead of coercing, the bloated clouds
through the boundless skies above keep huffing, puffing.
Demount your horse! and dawdle on the ground,

take your journey along the dirt, along the dandruff roads
where grains of sand show us their beauty,
where steps are measured in light-years.

With time slowing down, we meet, pass and separate.
And few notice our plight. Only our wheels
keep on turning around and around and around.

*A leading make of wheelchair.

C.P. God

The human body,
a physical entity,
must,
necessarily,
be imperfect.

What was G-d thinking
when He created us?

Adam.
Then Eve.

I guess
they weren’t bad
for a first attempt
at creation.

Like a cordon-bleu chef,
G-d knew his creation
was good. Good enough
for ninety-nine percent
of humanity.

G-d took a deep breath
as he pondered
these beings
made in his image.

Then,
it came to him.

A DEEP BREATH!

G-d would suck out
the oxygen from his
next creation,
giving it the gift of
Cerebral Palsy.

An ultimate perfection.

Could it be?

Could my walk be G-d’s walk?
Could my talk be G-d’s talk?
I guess it would make sense
in a backward kind of way.
Mysterious, powerful, misunderstood,
taken advantage of.

Nobody understands a word He says!

Yes, that’s it!

G-d MUST have C.P.

G-d’s gift of Cerebral Palsy
through a lack of oxygen at birth
is something I should be thankful for.

Praise G-d!
What a great guy he must be.

Imagine life as one continuous orgasm.
Pretty cool, huh?
Picture your face as you climax.
The ecstasy. The release.
Heavenly pulsations cause your muscles to tighten up.
You gasp for air as you try to prolong your culmination.
Do you see that?
Can you picture your expression?
Good.
Now take away the orgasm.
Only the expression remains.
Welcome to Cerebral Palsy.

Meet my new girlfriend.
I call her Belle.
Everyone else knows her
by her formal name:
Southwestern Bell Freedom Phone.
We get on really well.
She’s a great listener.
Dinner and a date
for only $4.99 a minute,
and she’s not that big of an eater!

Before we talk,
I have to get rid of my saliva.
I swallow,
Hopefully she will soon do the same.
I just breathe heavily,
she’ll think I a normal pervert.
I’ll let her do the talking,
that’s usually best.

I’m an ordinary John.
A dream come true.
How ironic is it that my fantasy
is to be normal,
to blend in with others.
She tells me I’m special.
I doubt she’ll ever call me back.
But just in case,
I’ll set my phone to vibrate.

Special Olympics

The menu is passed around.
Trembling hands point to the drink they want.
A nod and a grunt tell us that the speaker has our order down.
The waitress arrives.
He wipes away the excess saliva.
He exhales purposefully, simultaneously relaxing and tensing up.

Two Heinekens, two Carlsbergs, two Guinness and two Everclears.
Five minutes trying to communicate, then we settle for eight domestic beers.
Looks of disgust slowly turn into laughter and a shrug of the shoulders.
Our drinks soon arrive as we toast each other with our bottles in custom holders.

It’s a red plastic circle with a handle attached.
A teat on the bottle cap allows for the beer to drip into our mouths.
As much beer dribbles down our necks as does slither down our throats.
The symposium has just begun.
It’s time for the next round.
A spastic waving of the hand tells the waitress we want the same again.

Ten words a minute, each of us determined to speak our mind.
It’s a race to the finish for this subspecies of mankind.
Quarantined by society, never fully appreciated.
The meanings of our words are lost when translated.

A quarter is put in the jukebox.
Dire Straits’ “Walk Of Life” booms across the bar.
Heads tilt back and forth in a spiritual rhythm.
A melody from forgotten minds
Brothers In Arms, an album so apt.
More beer, more beer, there’s no need for thinking.

We become rowdy, as always we turn heads.
“There’s nothing to see here”—our maxim to the bipeds.
As we order drinks all around, our wallets get thinner.
Donating our gold medals to alcohol, the ultimate winner.