Even on the Worst Neuro Days, Mom Matters Most...

of the time. Just kidding, but capably
you're my canopy. Even when capriciousness drives
us to polar sides of PA, just because
that's where we live.

You try to convince me
come back home but
that's your present and my past


tense = tension, a trivial life


of tapping
toes,
twiddling already
twitching fingers
smiles
centrifugal clonus - not a body

on the go, and I'm corny
and cliched with gratitude, awe
for your less than 24-hour
cleaning skills

when the clutter/chaos/call-to-duty
my two homes:
body
abode

compound into a constant
choke:
cat hair


coats coating
once upon-a-time cream-colored carpet
as endless

winter winds that collapse
this caned lady
swishing ear to ear



What's the big deal with vertical?


circular red pills
oval pink capsules
oxy oxy oxy
cotin codone


caught


in my swallow, soundless. So you fly
to me, under the wire,
and that's and those are the same

wire(s) that wrap my recalcitrant
neuro body in conflict,
clinical trials,
insurance corruption;

CRPS (look it up, lazy, then thank your unhindered cognition)
trippy daily treatments;
convulsions; cramps, cricks, & caustic
integument cracking -

an egg on steroids
as my corpus
swells
out of itself;

crudely
crappily
curse the contiguous
moments of cureless
unconscious health


conundrums


cause constitution collapse (on the couch
or less corporeal iterations); and ceaseless alliteration

'cause I'm cool and crafty like that
even tho I'm too conked
on

Ketamine,
copious (nar)cotics
constructively commonsensical
(yet uncovered)
cure-hopes.
Thank you

mom, it's mother's day, one day
past yet another day we call a ride.


Once upon a time, you don't mind roller-coasters


except for this
looping-Magic-Mountain-brain-bending-Mind-Mend-nerves-Corkscrew-nervous-Worlds-of-Fun
a crockpotted neuro-concoction
that keeps
on keeping on
corroding
consuming
crumbling a life that we (altho probably differently) conceived.

Cheers mom.
Prost mom.
Grandma, thank you for calling.
Cheers mom.
Genatzt mom.
Salud, Sláinte, L'chaim!

We both like vodka.
I'm happy we both like vodka
at noon
at night
as closeted contraband
in home/hospital


either/or


Mud in your eye, but you're soft
Mud in my eye, because I'm numb
and ossified. Mud in
muddied, vacant, blurred,
blind, breathless, buried

eyes. Aye, aye! It's always as true
as volcanoes in Indonesia,
bottoms up
bottom's up
bottom's up
bottom's up