The Poetry of Pain

Here's a found poem from entomologist Justin O. Schmidt (via Wikipedia), in the form of a numeric/descriptive scale for rating the pain of various insect bites and stings. I give you The Schmidt Sting Pain Index:

• 1.0 Sweat bee: Light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.


• 1.2 Fire ant: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet and reaching for the light switch.


• 1.8 Bullhorn acacia ant: A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.


• 2.0 Bald-faced hornet: Rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door.


• 2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W. C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.


• 2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.


• 3.0 Red harvester ant: Bold and unrelenting. Somebody is using a drill to excavate your ingrown toenail.


• 3.0 Paper wasp: Caustic and burning. Distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut.


• 4.0 Tarantula hawk: Blinding, fierce, shockingly electric. A running hair drier has been dropped into your bubble bath.


• 4.0+ Bullet ant: Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heel.

Many thanks to cousin Kathy Keatley Garvey for mentioning the Schmidt Index in her excellent blog!

Artificial Tears

I've got a little box of artificial tears.
I don't need them anymore; you can have them all for free.
My eyes, they used to get so dry it hurt to look around
But some days they get so wet now, that I can't even see.

Three months ago I got these contact lenses.
Thought they'd make me look a little younger, and they did.
My baby liked it, then I guess she got to thinkin';
And pretty soon she wants to run off with some 20-somethin' kid.

And I said, Babe, it's time we start to act our ages
We'd better smarten up ourselves while we still can
And if you'll agree to be my own old woman
Then you know I'll be your good old man
We'll stop dressing up like a couple of skater punks
And we can be ourselves and live our lives away
Singing, and loving, and laughing and swapping stories,
Happy for the silver threads among the grey.

So I'll go back again to wearing my bifocals on my nose
No more muscle tees and sandals, I'll have orthopedic hose.
And the only six-pack you'll find here is in the ice box in the kitchen
Those young kids'll probably think we've let ourselves go, but I think we're pretty bitchin'.

I've got a little box of artificial tears.
I don't need them anymore; you can have them all for free.
My eyes, they used to get so dry it hurt to look around
But some days they get so wet now, that I can't even see.

I want to stick with you, Babe, we can act our age
And grow old together gracefully.