Memory In Absentia.

Its evening when I finally decide to leap out of bed. After watching some videos on the net and reading an article or two, I make some coffee and finally get my ass in gear. I leave first for the grocery store just down the street before they close to buy some body wash and a bag of burritos. When I bring my stuff up the register, the old lady there greets me, scans it and tells me what I owe. In response, I slide my card and press Debit. It asks for my four-digit code.

Terror fills me. I just freeze. My mind goes blank. Try as I might, the information is — poof! — just fucking gone.

After less than a minute, I give up and press Cancel. She hears the machine make a weird noise and directs all attention to it. I nervously explain to the cashier I meant to press Credit instead and she brushes it off like its no big deal, but I feel like I’ve yet again made a total jackass out of myself. On the way to the car, on the drive towards Circle K, on the drive back home I’m constantly trying to conjure it. What are those four numbers? What are they? Where are they? By the time I make it to my apartment door, I’m fairly certain I remember, but that does little to diffuse my concern and curiosity.

After all, this has happened before. Many times over the years, in fact. Not always with numbers, either, but the names of people I know damn well just up an vanish into the goddamn ether. The information always returns, though typically long after I needed it. This has always led me to questioning why that information disappears. Back when I was younger, I just ignored it, depending upon some idiot idea I cradled that if you ignore it, it will just go away. Since I have come to fight against that inclination to go ostrich and stick my head in the ground, however, it has increasingly come to plague me. Is this a symptom of anxiety, or a dissociative disorder, or does this shit happen to everyone and its just that no one talks about it?

I fear its just one more suggestion that I’m bat-shit insane.

Interstellar Letters.

When you wish upon a star
you cast your dreams
upon a distant sun,

one out of the countless 
shimmering
ghosts of our ancestors 
reaching out from the dark, 
unfathomable depths
of interstellar

space with photons
that will inevitably outlive
them, perhaps already have: 

you wish
upon
the dead, 
and yet…

Shimmering Stars, Eager Fingers.

The tension
was unbearable,

akin to being caught,
ensnared in the constantly
rising rhythm
of the wild libido 

though here one strives 
not towards
the quick fix,

the relatively close flickering flame,
tongues of a satisfying orgasm
willing and ready to consume,

but rather the bliss held
by an unimaginably distant,
shimmering star
one’s eager fingers
could never hope to reach.

Trigger for the Slaughter.

Cut my way
expertly
to the front of the line
so that they might
 
slit my pulsating throat
before turning
to the rest of the cattle.

Take me.

Set an example
for the blind,
provide a martyr
for my kind,
let them bathe in me,

taste my essence.
Let them feel it,
make them see…

I’ve always been
an impatient little fuck,

empathy killing
me before the whole
comes tearing

through to pierce,
rip apart, disembowel 
me more directly.

Let hell rain
upon you,
in any case…

Love and War.

Universe shifts
as it tends to do,
still she embraces me.

Headed towards collision,
though I know
she is my insulation 
for the impact due.

Go ahead and die, world,
as the planet stubbornly persists
at spinning ’round,
dizzying civilization
breaking down,

intent on dying.
 
No way to kill this,
though, our souls
are bound. I could give

a shit if the enemy
faces me, puts me in the place
he made for me, beats
me down, for I will overcome, 

fight to my last breath,
spill blood
as I bleed my nothingness.

Her mind, her heart,
my home.

I’m not alone,

so bring it on,
motherfucker.

Missy.

No hope in getting over,
moving passed
this wretched desire
to own you.

So sorry.
Makes me feel so sick.
If only I couldn’t love
you, perhaps

I could rise
above this biological
trick, if that is indeed
what it is…

Is it all instinct? Your face calms
my hate for everything,
gives me hope.

Such a strong soul
plowing through a life
that seems to just fashion
the rope of your sanity

into a pretty noose
around your neck.

To drown
in the bliss of your lips
once again,

to stare into those eyes,
to delve 
into the blue abyss,

it could save me.
It remains in the wildest dreams.

Missy, how
I fucking miss you.

Post Glen.

Blade to jugular.
Moment of truth has come.
What side are you on?

Barbwire bat bleeding.

Ignoring sharpened steel
to the skin, he speaks
his mind, screaming:

do it. Bring
it if you
have the balls, just

know I never crumbled
beneath the pressure,
that I chose
integrity

despite the consequence.

It grins, pushes
me down. Beats and cuts
me, yet leaves
me breathing, bleeding.

Suppose I deserve this. 

My rampage has left
a stick
in your eye,
but ultimately:

I will kill you.

By my hand,
you will fucking die.

Sole Soul in the Long Run.

Bringing clarity
to these blurry eyes,
I cry to my Self:

Wake. Up. 

Lightning strikes
against my hard and heavy head.
Guess I was asking for it.

Delivery seemed easy enough.

Now to learn to do it on my own,
sole soul in my long run.
Now to safely and effectively remove
my bulbous gourd from my rectum.

I can almost see the light peek
up from between those thick hills… 

Insanity’s Seed.

Memories absent
for so long ‘fore they returned.
No sense of the void
in the interim.

Back to the forgotten
white-knuckling my reigns
from the dark distance between us,
subtly manipulating me.

Something drew me back.

Maybe in response
to all those
strings it pulled
deep in me.

One yank
deserves another.
Puppet playing
the fucking puppeteer.

Follow my own footprints
back to track
my journey in the relative comfort
of retrospect
just to find untold horror,
a truly agonizing lack of confessions.  

Then: bam.

Revelations throwing
me on my bony white ass
and sending the cerebrum spinning,
amygdala like a coked-up mouse
running like a bat out of hell
on a hamster wheel within the cell
called my skull,

milky-white walls stained
with the blood of unanswered questions,
so many stolen, dismembered memories.

All this time,
where had they been hiding?
Just packed away an attic, stuffed
in a basement, a cubbyhole
or high security storage facility,
lost and gathering dust,
waiting to be found by me?  

Or might
someone, something,
have adopted them? 

Or might they have given birth
to the enemy
that now plagues me,

serving
as my insanity’s seed?

Spit or Swallow.

Blind faith
suddenly blessed
with sight:

let me guide
you to and through
this suicide,

you’ll be better
for it. 

Don’t believe me.
Please.

Just see.

Burn all credulity
to the ground,
spread suspicion
all around.

Wipe gears free
of cobwebs,
oil them up, grind
away, get

to really
thinking again.

Chew before you swallow,

never be afraid
to spit it out.