Awake on the couch with a chill
deeper than the cold and damp outside
The cold and damp inside.
What rhymes with colonoscopy?
Cold alone *** copy?
Cold nose cope ***?
Time for your anxiety sir. Open wide.
I wrap a blanket around my shoulders
the way old men do to keep warm
in their wheel chairs
as someone rolls them out into the sun
like a potted plant.

Suns coming up.
I can hear Mazie panting
at the top of the stairs.
I hope she doesn’t fall
trying to walk down in the dark.
Down in the dark.
She’s very unsteady.
Losing her balance.
Occasionally she tries to run and play
chasing her lost youth like the stick I once threw.
I wonder if she fears getting old
Like we do.
Like I do.

I hear Twister shaking herself,
as if I can hear every follicle
shaking one against the other,
then jump on the bed.
She lays down in my spot
and keeps it warm for me.
Such a kindness to faithfully keep one spot in this bleak, coldness warm just for me.
I look in her eyes sometimes and see
All the sadness
All the hope
All the trust
All the love
All     that     matters.

I’m not sleeping very well
Up every hour or three to ***
Or waking to worry
about money, health, life or love,
or the eminent lack thereof
of all of the above.

Rob asked me about Melodie
It’s odd because Rob and I never talk
And here I am
having a more intimate conversation with him
than I do with Melodie.
He asked me why I never mention her
I told him there was nothing to say.
That there was little between us.
What an odd way to describe not being in love.
“Little between us”.
As if love were a kind of space
or a cushion
a nook
or a cranny
a fence
a wall
an ocean
a deep, echoing chasm
or a bed.

Love is a kind of space.
A sacred space.
A sacred, funny, crazy, maddeningly,
painful, life threatening,
perfectly imperfect space.
A space in which to be held and hold
A space to be well... loved?
A space in which to be well loved.
A space in which to be well.
A space in which to be.

Remember that line from the movie “Alien”?
In space…no one can hear you scream.

I fear everything.

The things that have happened and the things that may.
Those thoughts that persist and won’t go away.
"You're not good enough." That’s and old one I know.
But it’s still a favorite part of the show.

I fear the things I know and the ones that I don’t.
I fear the beginnings, and of course the ends
and even the means to an end.
For those are often the worst.

I fear the bump or the lump or that mass under there.
That skipped beat of heart that none can repair.

The bill that comes due on what once was you.
That time of desires which suddenly expires.

That sentence unfinished stopped in mid stream.
That breathless breath ceasing mid scream.

I fear having to say that although it’s been fun.
I’m incredibly bored and I simply must run.

I fear not giving a **** and I fear giving too much.
I fear being ignored and then longing for touch.

I fear being alone and I fear the crowd.
I fear things I’m permitted and those not allowed.
I fear having too much time and losing what I’ve got.
I fear shoulders so cold and stares that are hot.

I fear not being loved. I fear smothering too.
I fear losing myself in all that is you.

I fear knowing, and not knowing as well.
That seems a unique and exquisite kind of hell.

I sit ensconced in my deepest fear
held intimately close, held tightly and dear.

Its been with me long and as I near the end
I now see it as some misunderstood friend.

I fear I’ve misjudged you such a pity is that.
I can no longer lie here growing sanguine and fat.
Oh, I beg to differ! I can definitely do that!

The piper pipes and payment is due.
He pipes for me and he pipes for you too.

I fear that my fears I may misconstrue.
My fear of me is quite often of you.

I fear being afraid which seems a bad joke
upon which my protagonist might easily choke.

I fear old age and not getting old too.
And the way to stop aging just simply won’t do.

I fear that this poem is not very good.
And that I’ve never been the best that I could.

I fear everything.
The things that have happened and the things that may.
The thoughts that persist and won’t go away.
Like you’re not good enough. That’s and old one I know.
But it’s still a favorite part of the show.

I fear the things I know and the ones that I don’t.
I fear the beginnings and of course the ends and even the means to an end. For those are often the worst.

I fear the bump or the lump or that mass under there.
That skipped beat of heart that none can repair.

The bill that comes due on what once was you.
That time of desires which suddenly expires.

That sentence unfinished stopped in mid stream.
That breathless breath ceasing mid scream.

I fear having to say that although it’s been fun.
I’m incredibly bored and I simply must run.

I fear not giving a **** and I fear giving too much.
I fear being ignored and then longing for touch.

I fear being alone and I fear the crowd.
I fear things I’m permitted and those not allowed.
I fear having too much time and losing what I’ve got.
I fear shoulders so cold and stares that are hot.

I fear not being loved. I fear smothering too.
I fear losing myself in all that is you.

I fear knowing and not knowing as well.
That seems a unique and exquisite kind of hell.

I sit ensconced in my deepest fear
held intimately close, held tightly and dear.

It‘s been with me long and as I near the end
I start to see it is as some misunderstood friend.

I fear I’ve misjudged you such a pity is that.
I can no longer lie here growing sanguine and fat.
Oh, I beg to differ! I can definitely do that!

The piper pipes and payment is due.
He pipes for me and he pipes for you too.

I fear that my fears I may misconstrue.
My fear of me is quite often of you.

I fear being afraid which seems a bad joke
upon which my protagonist might easily choke.

I fear old age and not getting old too.
And the way to stop aging just simply won’t do.

I fear that this poem is not very good.
And that I’ve never been the best that I could.

Inspection leads some men
to brief resurrection,
But that course can also
lead to a defection.

There’s often some needing,
for a frenzy of feeding,
When we seek to feast,
on an ego that’s bleeding.

Is it real or some mirage,
lost in forest or garage?
So many casualties of truth,
how can we triage?

This is that place
too well we know,
if you disagree
that’s your ego.

And right or wrong
you must submit,
Or be tossed from the circle
a dishonorable ****.

How is it we can be so blind,
to not see we are of a kind.
Who run about with desperate shouts,
without a mindful mind.

In the dark I see that wraith
Perhaps a remnant of my faith,
Ephemeral and tinged with rust
Forgotten father of my trust.

I’m not speaking here of thee,
Oh what’s this paradox I see
You said that! No I did not!
Oh, what a travesty!

Walk a mile in my shoes,
see for yourself what you may lose,
Perhaps you’ll find the fit so right
that it awakes you in the night.

And there you’ll lie and toss and turn,
amidst the loss amidst the burn
Oh, sad child who would not learn
Please say a prayer for me.

My body speaks
cartilaginous creaks
and my organs groan from within.

They talk of past deeds
And unspoken needs
And of course the occasional sin.

My heart skips beats
With random deceits
As I gasp with innocent surprise.

My stomach churns
And regularly burns
So much it brings tears to my eyes.

And those eyes are now blurred
larger type is preferred
Is this not the path of the wise?

My brain still remembers
But sometimes dismembers
The order in which I surmise.

My fingers they swell
And they hurt like hell
And perhaps that’s where I am bound.

My ears are still good
I still hear as I should
But all I hear is meaningless sound.

My tongue lost it’s taste
And now flavor I chase
And so I pile on the spice.

And my dear sense of smell
Is leaving as well
And that doesn’t seem very nice.

So what do I retain
From this sad refrain
Of my ability to engage with life?

To discover reality
Is naught but travesty
And there’s little meaning to the strife.

Inspection leads some men
to brief resurrection,
But that course can also
lead to a defection.

There’s often some needing,
for a frenzy of feeding,
When we seek to feast,
on an ego that’s bleeding.

Is it real or some mirage,
lost in forest or garage?
So many casualties of truth,
how can we triage?

And this is that place
too well we all know,
that if you disagree
well that’s just your ego.

And right or wrong
you must submit,
Or be tossed from the circle
a dishonorable ****.

How is it we can be so blind,
to not see we are of a kind.
Who run about with desperate shouts,
without a mindful mind.

In the dark I see a wraith
Perhaps a remnant of our faith,
Ephemeral and tinged with rust
Forgotten father of our trust.

I’m not speaking here to thee,
what’s this paradox I see
But you said that, no I did not,
Oh, what a travesty!

Walk a mile in my shoes,
see for yourself what you may lose,
Perhaps you’ll find the fit so right
that it awakes you in the night.

And there you’ll lie and toss and turn,
amidst the loss amidst the burn
Oh, sad child who would not learn
Please say a prayer for me.