Thinking and Speaking.

In a small circle broken only by,
the tiny space by which hopefully, I,
will make an escape at the end of my –
musings made public in the blink of an eye;
I lift my sword and point now,
to you: hazel eyes, six-foot-two,
you know exactly what it will be,
that I naturally recall about you…
the way that your shimmering eyes –
were a mask covering so many lies –
and how those lies eventually outweighed any truth;

Now, on to the one right next to the first:
top lip’s so tight his mouth might burst,
your body language says that your brain works fine,
the stance of your stature doesn’t look so self-assured,
you have kept your ignorance segregated, indeed –
by everyone – especially women – quite successfully –
that crap works great in the military, so why not go, soldier?

And on to the next obliviously smiling wise guy,
born and bred from the blood of some godly divine,
I’ve known of dead animals with better morals than you,
sporting tattoos that belong only in the skin of dead swine,
your very breath reeks of poisonous hatred –
a desire to destroy what any other finds as sacred –
wretched: your kiss is of Sulfur and your touch is of brine.

Huh? PART 2

After what felt like hours of listening to Willow (my Mother) talk about what seemed to nothing but gibberish regarding her past experiences with “Satan’s Angels” (this is what she calls doctors and/or nurses), she finally started to get on a page that I could somewhat begin to read with clarity.

“Remember when you lived down south and I got the Shingles that weekend when I came down to visit you?”

“Yes, how could I ever forget that? That was awful – forever…”

And it was awful forever:
Willow came down with the Shingles Virus in her left eye while she was staying with me down south, over ten years ago. In her case, she had a delayed reactivation of the anti-bodies or something and basically in a nutshell: continues to live in chronic and severe optic nerve pain (which is supposedly horrific pain) from day to day.

“Well….at first, the docs had me on Vicodin for the pain; but when I went in for a checkup with my regular doctor when I came back up home, he said they had me on the wrong meds – and he put me on something for actual nerve pain instead, which worked like a charm…”

It was an interesting story, but my tooth was killing me and I could hardly concentrate on anything but my own chronic pain at the moment. Finally, she turned up the lamp that she keeps on the table to the left of her recliner and stared digging around for something.

“Well, that’s great Mom, that they figured out the issue – I had forgotten about all that but yeah – I remember how miserable you were that weekend…and I didn’t see you for a while after that, did I?”

It is occurring to me as speak these words that the weekend she came down with the Shingles was the last time I saw her before my traumatic injury and near-fatal experience that left me hospitalized for a year plus; she left with my daughter that day, and she and I had planned on her keeping Boo for a few weeks – she knew something was very wrong with my situation. She finally stops the shuffling and hands me a bottle of pills.

“These are the same a s what the y gave me for the nerve pain in my eye, honey…it’ll probably at least ease some of that nerve pain in your mouth…try it out, here”

She shoves the bottle into my hand and turns down the light again, sitting back in her chair as if her work is done.
And let me tell you: the stuff worked like a charm…