I feel sober … delirious … a crass

imperious, like a needless meltdown

or a skirt with buttons sewn down the ass,

leaving queer imprints each time I sit down.

Don’t frown. I have floppy sweat, sweaty flop

and this deeply odd dimple. Here are two

blinkable eyes drowning in my mop top.

High dreams, click bait, a smoking glitter glue

gun. Don’t laugh, this glamour is serious,

like the foundling you’re fondling. Hell’s

bells in the palm of your hand. Don’t question

this fog’s piss. I’ve turned totally bogus,

as the kids say. Fog? Dementia that swells

in me, hot as any glue from a gun.

notes.

As I’ve noted elsewhere my father has dementia and I, being the oldest child in the whole extended family, am perhaps showing early signs of it too. I say, “early signs,” as if I were operating with some sort of money-back-guarantee of reaching a million miles before needing to be sold for scrap in exchange for something slightly better.

This is what I think about, perhaps at times a bit too much. Self-pity is an odd toxic beast. Some folks say that dementia is a blessing since it causes the patient to forget that they’re slowly losing everything about themselves. I don’t spend a lot of time on-line these days, not because I don’t care but because there are times that I’ve forgotten that I have a blog and that revelation is sorta a total bummer.

If, at some point, I stop posting here for good it will probably mean that I’ve lost the path to get back home; midway, as Dante would put it, through those deep dark woods where no search party will ever be able to find me.