MR. WHITE SONOFABITCH, FALLING APART

space is creeping in.  poisoning myself with vitamins.  mourning deep and heavy for things lost, forgotten or never recovered.  mourning for things retroactively… things like people.  sinking in the quicksand of my thought.  hot and cold at the same time… feeling the world hollow me out only to re-pack my body with its secret blend of 4,000 GMO herbs and spices.  drinking all the plastic tainted waters beefed with electrolytes and godknowswhatelse.  my horsmone hot out the top of my head.  i’m not really sick… only brain damaged.  floated through last week like a balloon full of other balloons full of hydrogen and chlorine.  would that explode?  certainly toxic… certainly.
sickness, death, winter.  i know what it feels like to die.  wish i didn’t.  more of that good old existential exhaustion… who cares.
stumbling past all the stupidity and heifers with their kankles and wrankles, tears filling my eyes and ears.  fold me over into AARP because i’m heading there faster than i realize.  what happened to the old me-s?  what closet are they stashed away in (among the used kleenexes and costumes)?  are they worth anything now?  who am i?  who am i?  what the fuck can i do that isn’t pre-recorded?
pieces fall off, blood is traded, fluids exchanged but mostly wasted.  too much bee product is killing the bees… bee-o-cide for lip balm and sweetner.  too much asshole and plastic is killin’ ’em too.  loose stitches come undone through picking, through inattention or abuse.
mom suggested the tanning booth.
a kid shot himself on the Statehouse steps last night during rush hour; left a note on FaceFuck: “my demons got the best of me today.  i’m sorry.”   guess they did- blew his brains out at the front door.  the smell of cordite and damp ground: blood in the snow, grey matter on the pillars and plaques.  he’s paid his taxes ahead of time, all at once for the rest of his life.
grey blush and brown flush.  it all goes to the same place.  fuckness.  who cares about the election… because fuck all of ’em.  they can’t do a goddamned thing except get up and emote the bloat.
love letter to winter: hate better in winter.  need to help someone… like you’re doing.
help myself first.
maybe i DO need the tanning booth.  wrap myself in radiation…
so many people so many dead end problems.
solutions.
drink them.
make them.
giving up the habits that are defining me in unkind ways.  i want to throw up but i don’t have the time or the privacy.
dachau blues 3
The New Narcissism, digital photo manipulation, 2015 copyright GPD
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