"Hallucinations"
The hallucinations are more frequent. They started as bedbugs, ants, or
cockroaches that my eye would catch. It then progressed to hair, Donald
Trump's doing the limbo; it transpired to faces, from beautiful men to women
to one-eyed toothless hags and leprechauns dancing jigs on my armoire
and pointing their sharp jaundiced finger at me warning me to stay away
from "me pot o' gold". They like to play games, these hallucinations, catch
me off guard and take a peek into my bedroom hoping to see something
taboo. I try to ignore them, but my ADHD won't allow it. Now someone's always around the corner, smiling, getting ready to push me off a ledge
or drop a grand piano on my head so I could pop out of it like a goofy
cartoon character in a half daze with the ivory keys replacing my teeth.
I like to play hide and seek with them, catch their astonished expression
in a mirror and chase them into a deserted field where I know I'm never
alone.
The hallucinations are more frequent. They started as bedbugs, ants, or
cockroaches that my eye would catch. It then progressed to hair, Donald
Trump's doing the limbo; it transpired to faces, from beautiful men to women
to one-eyed toothless hags and leprechauns dancing jigs on my armoire
and pointing their sharp jaundiced finger at me warning me to stay away
from "me pot o' gold". They like to play games, these hallucinations, catch
me off guard and take a peek into my bedroom hoping to see something
taboo. I try to ignore them, but my ADHD won't allow it. Now someone's always around the corner, smiling, getting ready to push me off a ledge
or drop a grand piano on my head so I could pop out of it like a goofy
cartoon character in a half daze with the ivory keys replacing my teeth.
I like to play hide and seek with them, catch their astonished expression
in a mirror and chase them into a deserted field where I know I'm never
alone.
***
The Joy of Frogs
Down my esophagus in the mucosa filled pits are frogs wallowing in hedonistic fervor, enjoying a slime-filled bath and blowing phlegm bubbles to each other like euphoric opium addicts in semi-consciousness. Their fun, however, is limited. After wallowing a while they feel the need to escape as claustrophobia enters their minute brains. It's very difficult for them to escape the mucous pool they relentlessly hopped into, but with my help (the frogs are more a nuisance to me than I to them) I attempt to regurgitate them with some skillful hawking I've learned after years of having frogs live and breed in my throat. They make their way to my mouth, moving toward the light at the end of the pink tunnel. As one frog pops open his head and attempts to make his final leap to freedom, I bite down really hard on its legs and grind my teeth back and forth to tear them off completely. The frog eventually falls out of my mouth in a painful stupor as the legs spastically dance on my tongue like two oversized pop rocks. I chew the tasty meat and wash it down with some fresh green pond water. This is how a symbiotic relationship works.
***
A Walk
I walk down the littered streets
with bubblegum tar attached to the pavement
being pecked on by rabid pigeons
with grease dripping from their eyes,
bobbing their head and flapping
their large bacteria stained wings,
feeding on a grenade that some
Islamic extremist tossed at them
for not fasting during Ramadan
as if it was corn on the cob, trying
to pick out the niblets but
like a glutton pulling out the pin
and causing a battered mixture of
blood and feathers exploding,
an enveloped spectacle for all:
to see red snow falling in July.
The Joy of Frogs
Down my esophagus in the mucosa filled pits are frogs wallowing in hedonistic fervor, enjoying a slime-filled bath and blowing phlegm bubbles to each other like euphoric opium addicts in semi-consciousness. Their fun, however, is limited. After wallowing a while they feel the need to escape as claustrophobia enters their minute brains. It's very difficult for them to escape the mucous pool they relentlessly hopped into, but with my help (the frogs are more a nuisance to me than I to them) I attempt to regurgitate them with some skillful hawking I've learned after years of having frogs live and breed in my throat. They make their way to my mouth, moving toward the light at the end of the pink tunnel. As one frog pops open his head and attempts to make his final leap to freedom, I bite down really hard on its legs and grind my teeth back and forth to tear them off completely. The frog eventually falls out of my mouth in a painful stupor as the legs spastically dance on my tongue like two oversized pop rocks. I chew the tasty meat and wash it down with some fresh green pond water. This is how a symbiotic relationship works.
***
A Walk
I walk down the littered streets
with bubblegum tar attached to the pavement
being pecked on by rabid pigeons
with grease dripping from their eyes,
bobbing their head and flapping
their large bacteria stained wings,
feeding on a grenade that some
Islamic extremist tossed at them
for not fasting during Ramadan
as if it was corn on the cob, trying
to pick out the niblets but
like a glutton pulling out the pin
and causing a battered mixture of
blood and feathers exploding,
an enveloped spectacle for all:
to see red snow falling in July.
