Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

I was strolling the sidewalks of my small
nearest to me town, a farm and vineyard
village, an unhurried and laid-back place
home to perhaps 15,000 souls. Tree lined
streets with singing birds aplenty, spring
sun shining, not a cloud in the azure sky,
another good day to be alive.

I was whistling some made up tune,
a thing I, almost never do, but feeling
so good just compelled me to expel.

My old legs signaled a needed rest stop
and an inviting bench lay dead ahead.
I took a seat and caught my breath.

Had not noticed the other old guy
sitting upon the end of the long bench.
I waived an index finger in passive greeting
which he acknowledged with a friendly
grin and slight nodding of his chin, a
weathered Fedora jauntily resting upon his
head. He wore old jeans with red suspenders,
green plaid shirt and well-worn work boots.
An old farmer come to town, not so different
than me.

We set in silence for a few minutes, just
relaxing and taking in the scene around us.
Caught up in that pleasant moment I began
to hum a 1960s or 70s tune, after a time my
bench mate began to hum the same tune,
in perfect unison and pitch, better than mine.
We turned to one another and both smiled.

We finished our shared melody and silence
returned, all but for the singing of birds in
the trees. I stood up from the bench and as
I passed the still seated friendly gent we
performed a convivial fist bump of shared
fellowship, and never a word was needed
or spoken between us.

My doctor wanted to give me the results of a blood test so asked me to come down
As I sat there listening to him meandering on about cholesterol, blood pressure, vitamin deficiencies
I got fed up and cut in on him suddenly
"Look Doc don't sugarcoat it, how long have I got ?"
He said "What do you mean, you're still in pretty good shape, you have a few things you gotta watch...
Again I cut in on him "I appreciate you're trying to break it to me easy Doc
But y'know I don't mind, as long as I...as long as I just get some nice big fancy disease with a big fancy name on it
Not one of those ould common garden type diseases that everyone gets
Something that'd make them all jealous envious
They'd all be looking at their own boring little diseases saying
"I wish I had a disease like his, with a big fancy name on it
Not this ordinary little disease that I've got
They'd be all looking over thinking
He must be a very special type of guy to have gotten such a big fancy disease like that...

The ****** of a doctor, he went and charged me 60 Euros
Now... now that hurt.

Paralyzed by the unknown, lost in shadow, how can I find the fissure where light might pierce this gloom? It presses in – a void that steals the air, leaving me breathless in the emptiness. Doubt, a fragile seed, sprouts even here in the suffocating dark. Where is the conduit for truth? How can it be brought forth? Is the only passage forged in fire? Must I consume myself, offer my own being as the flame, hoping its sacrifice illuminates the way forward?