A Racehorse Bleeding Out; In Life & Death
4•15•2026
The following is a poem written by yours truely in a great time of emotional distress and boredom. I find that moments of that nature product the best creative works. As with much of my work, the piece is abstract in theme and free in the name of meter. I will be the first to admit I am not the best poet, but I try. My drive to birth a poem on this fateful day comes from my well-reguarded acquaintance and guest writer on the journal: Frank. Mind you, this act of poetic injustice was first etched into torn notebook paper. Its first digital moments exist on this web page—transcribed from the analog world. Enjoy.
You bleed at a breakneck pace
In turn — at the races — with a finger on the pulse of the starter pistol
I leap — as does a bloodclot towards hemorrhage
To save — but save I do not
The show is over — the gambling persons are on cue to weep
They go clammy — gashes proliferate — men are cut to size
May god have mercy on us all — for he forged our blood in a crucible — and sopped it up like a lapdog
Hold fast my compatriots — through sleet and shine — we're falling through god's fingertips
He decants away all but our blood