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Thoracic Outlet Syndrome

Neuropathic Pain

Concussion Clinical Essentials

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Spinal Injections

Pain Management Options

Youth Sports Concussion: Protecting Your Child's Brain

III. Algorithms

Genuis

1. Gridiron Poem by Chace "Mic Write" Morris

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

What am I but eggshell
pretending to be iron

the Body Electric wrapped around
tree trunk after tree trunk of a man
,
the concussion of thunder
when muscle meets red-lined muscle
in this, the most violent of magnetism.
Half smart bomb, half demolition derby, half
man.
I haven’t been remembering
things proper lately.


My physics-
a stopwatch count of collisions accumulating
on this pay booth of a brain;
no currency
to measure the toll taken, just a jagged turnpike
between mind & mouth that words
catch flats on. Memories run a 4.2 flat in the 40s
can’t imagine how impossible they’ll be
to catch by 50.
Makes you wonder
how much this is all really worth:
2-3 million dollars extra in a contract
year?
A new set of downs
some psychologist will later call Depression?

How about the sold-out stadium, raucous
& drunk above the bridge of my nose
;
my skull- 4th quarter away game; my mindrushed
field, torn goal post;
mind tells hands hold everything
love like Hail Mary I’m afraid to lose;
says bruises are audible for love,
for careful
; fracture for stay,
for I remember.

Ignore the eggshell cracking;
the Faustian trade of memory
:
1st touchdown for 1st words.
Remember to hold the newborn
with 3 points of pressure
like you’ll never fumble her
again. Your total in career yards
for the first time you and your wife
made thunder.
It’s always been a game of inches:
as in- the distance the brain travels
after helmet to helmet buckshot
as in- the space between organ & bone


after the brain swells like a frustrated ocean,
kissing a familiar shoreline it’s known 25 years
with a name it can no longer remember
.
I choke on a shipwreck’s worth of forgotten,
my mouth a haunted hull.

The concussion is a silent titan-
Medusa reincarnated & conceited as ever,
finding new warriors to kiss eyes wide open,
stalking every hashmark, all hiss and ear-lick.

Kissed me for the first time in primetime
on a deep post route after a strong safety
turned my head into a blown fuse
;
We made love in shadow & onyx
for what felt like hours
; woke up minutes later,
arms frozen in the shape of a goal post,
counting the trainer’s fingers like a missed field goal;
begging coach like a made one,
”I’m good. I’m good. I’m good”
Ignore the black hole consuming your star.
Focus instead on the quicksilver smilethe
way it beats press coverage after the game

the same way my feet do in it
with a perfect- Slant.
Even as the reporter questions my heart,
slanders me iron pretending to be eggshell-
Body electric brownout
after the thunder of concussion
number 4 rolls my brain into
a wild flood swallowing everything;
and carves me into the kind of stone
that denies erosion is occurring
even as the relentless current
washes me away
, grain by grain,
until there’s nothing recognizable left

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