This entry is part 13 of 37 in the series Bridge to Nowhere: poems at mid-life


Brainless head.

Five-member mob.

Core sample for a lead mine.

The last word’s epitaph.


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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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  1. Boy that’s good! A poem like a fist, about a fist. And now it’s stuck like a burr in my mind. Dave, you are one clever, clever man! Well done my friend.


  2. I was going to comment on the fist-like structure of the poem, but I see I have been beaten to it already. Indeed, well done.


  3. Thanks, Clive and Maria! Praise from you two makes me think I might’ve gotten it right, though for the longest time yesterday I was convinced that these were only the bare bones of a poem.


  4. No, hardly bare bones. This was fully fleshed out, albeit in short-hand.

    Great piece of writing, Dave.


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