Thunderstorms mark us, on the way to another store. Marc Miller once LOL’d at me, because I dreamed of this world long after the government-mandated switch turned off. We heard His voice: Home and Death, Destruction and Remembrance. I hope he’s cured before the tender hand reaches down to smash our lights out.
How many years did I lose on this Prozac trip? “Just take the medication,” Carol said in her nightly prayers. She’s dead to me now, taken up by her art friends and her refusal to stay with me well into the night as the demons breathed fire and familiarity in their gossip chambers. I championed her cause as she turned me away, because “you refuse to let go of your pain.” Mae-B would know; she did the same thing.
The raft only holds one.
Every night when I can, I listen to the vaccines of the late-night conspiracy theorists, the lost saviors, the psycho-tropic drug users stuck in a 9/11 homicidal ideation Mandela Effect hip trip. Buy thred-up on Etsy after your devil’s horn selfies.
Today, I tried to capture the sun between the blackened pine trees looming high above the chem-trail heavens. If I did, I might save myself.
The tricyclic antidepressants after the day Terri died stole the subsequent years. Birthdays, funerals, vacations, your precious holy birth are a blur to me now, as fleeting as the emotions I continue to chase like fireflies in the dying summer.
I can’t remember what it’s like to feel.