when fire loses oxygen

here i am

here i am not me

my mind as neutral as motel wall art

my thoughts are soft like cat fur

my emotions pliable and bland

where the fuck is

my normal

my comfortable

my natural

irrational, gritty, fired up and fucked over

lost in the maze of neurons and menges

i can feel it like a ghost on the bed

but i can’t grab ahold of it

it’s not accessible

there are dust-devils of actions, reaction, inactions

whirling around

whipping through my consciousness

long enough

hard enough

fast enough

to remind me they are still there

mocking me that i can’t catch them

this isn’t the first time

this won’t be the last

the cycle me gets lost more easily these days

“idiopathic loss of cognition”

i need to live life by the teeth

i need to see the heavenly and evil in everything

i need to scream

i need to stomp

i need to be alive

i need to think

i need to feel

i fucking hate beige


ferris wheel & pink cotton candy

it’s a tumultuous feeling


it seems like a lie

a temptation for tornadoes

to rip everything apart

leaving the soul barefoot

to navigate across shattered glass


a perfect indicator of emotional doom

the sniper in place

waiting for the order to fire

the ravens gather for the onslaught


leaving time for promises to die

giving way to mental destruction

defenseless, naked, unmasked, unaware

blind in a boxing match


time to prepare myself

for the barbed wire dress

for the parade of the despised


pacts and trusts in boxes

that i am unable to open

i don’t have the fucking key

i don’t have the fucking tools


what a bullshit mirage

put in place to make the thinking

go to doctors and hospitals

thorazine and depakote

frontal lobotomy life therapy

there is no comfort in joy

there is no contentment in tranquility

happiness is rotting flesh disguised with aromatherapy


just write

i don’t know if this is writer’s block…it feels more like mental constipation.  i can’t really think in the way that is going to make sense to anyone outside of my head.  i am not sure how well i am thinking things out.  the worst feeling in the world.  i can let go of the motor skills and i can even become friends with the pain….but my mind…that is all i have.  all there ever really was.  so is this the next step in the journey?  amy keeps asking what i am feeling…but it’s not about feeling, it’s about thinking.  she thinks it’s a fear but it’s not fear.  it’s more of an anticipation before an impulse….that millisecond before your brain receives the information that you are being burned.  it’s a limbo in between reality and perception and i can’t help feeling i am never going to be free of this horrible arena.  it’s my personal hell.  i tell people all the time just work…even when you don’t feel like you have anything going on up there just work and it will start to come.  i guess if i have ever felt even a glimpse of this before now, i focused my attention somewhere else, but now i am stuck in tar struggling to get out.  hopefully there is some cosmic lesson on the other side or maybe some god somewhere is getting a good chuckle out of it.  then maybe it’s useful somehow.  for now i just write and stay accountable to the fucked up process.

too much!!!!

it all seems to just pile up until everything topples over.

i have been pretty active, keeping my mind off of all the chaos and overwhelming uncertainty of my illness.  that is kinda how i have to operate in order to just process information.  it’s always been that way…i get bad news and i have to throw myself into some project or work in order to take it in.  then, maybe, after some time i can sort it out.  when my middle son was diagnosed with autism, i went to work and worked open to close for almost a year.  when my dad died, i threw myself into planning his memorial then started a band project then let a crazy junkie hang out.  now i am steps closer to finding out what this illness is and i can’t stop writing or reading or working on the zine, shit i am even trying to start a project to help kids….

then when i least expect it, it dawns on me-“i am really fucking sick!!!!  i am really fucking sick and it is never going to be over….”  i have to fight everyday.  fight to stay at this level of sick, i have to let go of that one day dream.  this level of sick sucks!  medication boxes other people have to fill up because i can’t be trusted to take my meds the right way because my neurons are at war.  walkers, canes, wheelchairs, grab bars, handicap stalls…that is the good part.  at least those things help me do basic things without too much embarrassment.  being in public and having a total meltdown because there are too many lights and smells and noises and temperature changes, and the worst part is i know i am doing it.  i know i am reacting, but i can’t not do it no matter what.  i have to cover my ears and run…well, not run, shuffle as quickly as possible.  getting a coffee is a gamble-is there going to be too many people  who wear too much cologne, is someone’s cell phone with a horrible ringtone going to go off while the lady next to me is gabbing loudly, is someone going to cough on me…

but the worst is the holes…the holes the people around me leave.  it is unintentional.  they don’t mean it.  they just don’t care enough to learn how to not have the holes.  they don’t read to find out what this is.  they see the physical outward manifestations and they want that to not be there, but they don’t see the inside, the swollen organs, the lymph nodes, the nerve swelling, the fear because i forget how to walk or how to urinate.  it’s a non-issue the internal.  as long as they don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.  the holes.  i get so angry.  i get so hurt.  i need the support, but it is minimal.  when i try to talk about it, everyone just shuts down.  i just need some help.  i don’t know how to do this alone.  i don’t know how to see the holes.

it all seems to just pile up until everything topples over.

cotton candy and destruction

the whispers

words so soft

floating music

tales and lunacy

i remember days

i called you friend

before the pomp

before the lies

before the malice

i remember me

cage battles with bigots

but that is not all

i remember much more

screams with no sound

fear of my name

i remember

my soul cold and wet

accusations without merit

abominable destruction

a wrecking ball

smashing all i know

turning truth into dust


the pain

the humiliation

the shunning

between us

there is no hate

there is no love

there is too much loss

and too many boggarts

i do hope you find

sanctuary and refuge

the stones you gathered

and distributed

thrown with expert precision

killing much

damaging more

still covered in my naivety

are heavy in the palms

of those who you once called friend

the scarecrow and the big bad wolf: best friends forever

we are living in a house of cards

a constant evolution

and proper introductions

uneasy unhappy unimpressed

and the cards keep flowing

layers and layers

great facade of spades

no big bad wolf is needed

to huff and puff

this house will fail itself

just a trembling hand

and gravity’s grip

where will you go when life stops

not death, worse

madness and sadness and panic

my soul aches

i am full of emotions

but my thoughts are empty

like the scarecrow

skipping to oz

another deck of cards opened

new and crisp

there isn’t much time left

cards shaking

it will collapse into itself

so gather the children

and sing them a song of change

as the world crumbles

goldfish memory

confusion and disorientation settling in just fine

the longtime-no-see friends down for the weekend

the ability to determine dreams from memories fading

standing barefoot in the kitchen, searching for reasons

getting lost in the bedroom, forgetting what was needed

pen to paper scrabbling thoughts that seem important

it can’t just get up and walk away, i think, can it?

an epic search and rescue to find the philosophy

and answers to life’s most serious of all questions

pulled from the freezer, becoming engulfed in fear

the humiliation of possibilities and probabilities rising

the struggle to recall the mundane, common language

days and nights slide into each other forming time warps

so easily overwhelmed with sensory invasions and fear

tears falling like rain without comprehension of why

anger, helplessness, pride, defeat playing maestro

there is nothing promised, no compromise on the table

the brain is a magic eight ball spewing random prophecy

“magic 8 ball, is there hope?” shaking vigorously

liquid splashes finding the correct answer to the wrong question

“better not tell you now” the reply so sought after