orthostatic hypotension and me: a romance
i like to stand in front
of the mirror
stand up/sit down/stand up/sit down
and watch the light die in my own eyes.
of human consciousness before the deafening crack
of tightness in our chest-
stretch stretch snap
the psychedelic colors,
like lsd bouncing blue blue black
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black out days
all these years
of being alive,
and i am struggling to put something
to words, to express
ache is. an untranslatable language,
who will understand?
all these years
to push it through
the pores of my
between my breathing.
i am tired,
Doctor My Eyes
A friend once told me that several times throughout the day, we humans experience a form of pain that our brains register as mild enough that we just have to sort of quickly touch the afflicted spot to feel better. We call this pain an itch.
I wonder if my addiction is an itch too. The pain begins, mild enough at first. I rush for the closest, most preferable vice. And the itch goes away for a time.
What I want to know, doctor, is do humans really stop being itchy or do we just not notice it once the skin has been scratched raw? When will I stop desperately reaching for distractions to fill the time in between when I feel dead?
Better yet, doctor, was the itch ever really there or do our brains fabricate it? Am I the one causing myself to spiral to death and back like this, and it's all in my head?
And, doctor, what happens if we scratch an itch too much? How far can I go without being too far gone?
Mellow is the man who knows what he’s been missing
I’m laying flat in the dark with headphones on top volume. It’s not enough. I need Led Zeppelin to revive from the dead, crawl into my ear canals, perform live in my brain, and infect me with that oOoOoOoo sweet mama!
more than a woman?
she was standing at the kitchen counter
cutting fruit with a heavy knife and
listening to the beegees,
she was caught up staring out the
window after something invisible
humming with faltering breath and
shoulders weighed down and
it made me wonder suddenly if
long ago my mother had ever been
something other than a mother.
walk home before the streetlights turn on, ok?
i stand at a gas pump on a monday night
momentarily forgetting altogether how to put gas in a car
for a brief moment, i thought i heard my father
calling me home for dinner off the playground swings,
blue at the lips
i wanted to say
i love you finally
it didn't come out
a gasping noise like
i ran out of words
he didn't take
the time to wait
until i could breathe again
and with him,
all my love
it ended like this, my
words were stolen
and i was left
with empty eyes and
mouth, he took
i hate yous i want yous
and i love yous
i wanted to say
Who wants to?
I want to.
take you on a date.
to the grocery store.
so we could sit on the just-mopped shiny floor
in front of the seafood section.
we'd sit in front of the lobster tank
and watch two of the little red guys
fight with black bands around their claws.
we could both bet on a lobster, and
whoever won got to pick out
a donut at the fly-infested donut counter.
who wants to?
driving a ducati into a sewage river
there's not much to say, other than that
i'm very wet and have road rash on my ribcage
and sewer water in my nose.
i've never been much for sudden idiotic
decisions, but this was an exception. you'd
agree, had you been there. the ducati was red,
i was redder, from anger mostly. i got fired
from a job that didn't matter in the first place,
but it was supposed to get me somewhere,
that was the point. but what is the point of anything?
i can say, climbing on the back of a sleek bike
with my heels practically skimming the spinning
highway asphalt, it is always tempting to do the
wrong thing. i jumped a bridge once over some
mountain bikers and hit the ground with gravel
digging holes in my shins. and for some reason, with
blood in my mouth and hands, i wished i fell harder.
there's something about pain acclimated from speed
and height and adrenaline. it gets you close enough
to the edge without going all the way. but there's
more, there's always more to go. and i walk past
hikers on mountain trails, some guy making barbecue
at his little suburban house grill, cars that aren't
totaled from crashing into rivers. pushing my gushing
ducati- or what's left of it- up the dirt road in a
humiliating way. have you ever been too angry to
be humiliated? have you ever been angry enough
to stop wondering if there is a point to anything?
i didn't have time to wonder what the passersby saw-
some scraped-up guy with sopping clothes and muddy
hair and an attitude. some unfortunate person with water
squelching in the soles of their shoes and tires. some person
that deserved what they got. did it matter what they thought?
i wonder if there's enough sewer water in my head
right now to rot my brain.