The Effects of Effexor

The Effects of Effexor (PMxxxi)

I have dropped one of my

meds again,

the dreaded effexor, have to go through the entire

week,

gravely ill,

doing a new job and wondering

how the fuck I am going to make

it to the end of the week

without anyone noticing.

Going off effexor as well as making you sick

to your stomach

also makes you cry for no

apparent reason,

at any given time or place.

Usually with me it is

triggered by a song,

many ones that are a reminder

of my childhood,

for instance, Pink Floyd

and The Who are definite full-blown

bawling triggers making

me stay upwind of anything Q107.

When I am out in public

I have cried from Tiny Tim, Metallica and

The Travelling Wilburys.

Anything "Pinawa" in my mind

would also set me off.

Why do I stop taking the drug if

it makes me feel so bad and is

such an unhealthy shock to my

body.

Its the only way I can get

back in control,

and feel some emotions again.

While on the drug everything

is predestined and I lose the ability

to make a conscious decision

about how I feel and why,

I don't dream when I am taking effexor,

when I go off, I dream

constantly, when I can sleep!

The dreams are stark,

macabre, always dark

violent and frightening but at

least they exist and I am

feeling them.

The old wives tale that you can;t

die in your dreams is a load

of shit,

I have died hundreds of times

dreaming,

plane crash, decapitation,

stabbing, shooting,

falling off a Swiss Alp,

and just recently crushed under

the wheels of a Subway

train,

I've done it all!!

MCC

Dream Adventure

Dream Adventure (PMxxviii)

Somehow the cat got into

my lunch bag,

she is small, but not so

small that I wouldn't have

noticed her.

Apparently I had driven to

work that morning even

though my license was

suspended and I had a

flat tire.

I noticed there was an

abundance of cats at work

that day,

where previously there had been

none.

I had to check the underbelly of

every cat,

they were all black,

to find my cat's hysterectomy

scar.

I finally found her and went

to tell my boss.

I told him I had to go home for

twenty minutes because I

had accidentally brought my

cat to work.

He balked at first until I let

him know he could dock

my pay for the time I was

gone.

Incidentally there was a

Supreme Court Judge in today

and he had brought his

daughter to work.

For some reason my wife and

son were hiding behind some containers

near where my car was parked.

I offered to drive them home

and they seemed quite happy

about that

I collected the cat and my family

and got into the car with the

flat tire.

I drove straight toward a

nearby Shell Station

to put air in the tire.

The air came out too fast

as I pumped it in.

The tire was fucked,

I guess I had tried to

patch it with electrical tape

but I had failed

miserably.

I decided to make the run

for home,

there was construction all

over the place and I was

having enough trouble

with the flat tire,

trying to manoeuvre myself

on to Kennedy,

and elude all the cops so I

wouldn't get a ticket for

driving while under suspension.

I awoke before I got home!

MCC

Not Sure Which Circle

Not Sure Which Circle (PMxxvii)

I have been sentenced

to the fourth or fifth

circle of hell. I'm not sure which

and I'll have to

brush up on my Dante

to register it properly.

I have a desk on a lonely

loading dock.

In the last three hours

I have received six

boxes, so small it has

precluded me from even

getting up from my chair.

People drop nt, some I know,

others I don't.

many I don't want to even

under the direst circumstances.

I have been left to rot,

like an unripened pear,

left n the windowsill

surrounded by fruitflies

and turning black on the

bottom.

I will only be noticed

when I start to smell and

only then will I be discarded

with the rest of the

rotting refuse., which will begin its'

long journey toward being

reborn.

Who is punishing me?

I keep tracking the obvioud

on a maze and

unfortunately I always

come back to myself.

Really bad fucking decisions

always culminate leaving me

standing alone,

talking to the wind and

trying to blame the last leaf

on the tree for my own

transgressions.

Its hard to take the blame!

MCC

Left in the Trunk

Left in the Trunk (PMxxvi)

I placed the four parcels

in my trunk before starting my

route,

meaning to drop them off on

my way home.

They were close by and I kneew

I couldn't forget.

I completed my work that day

about a half hour earlier

than usua,

I was so happy that my mind

forgot to remind me to

deliver the stupid parcels.

It was about four in the afternoon,

I was hoe, lying on the couch

playing a Volkswagen video game

when I remembered.

I considered just leaving them

for the next day but they had

been cracking down on

registered mail so I knew I had to

go back.

It was rush hour and it took me

forty minutes to drive them back,

when I arrived a lady came

running out of the house.

She thanked me profusely for

bringing her the parcels

which apparently contained

passports and they were flying

out that night.

"We've been on the phone with the

Post Office all day," she cried.

"I'm so glad you made it here on time."

I accepted the hero laurels

deep down knowing I was going

to catch shit the next day.

I considered phoning in sick

the next morning but I finally

decided to face the music and

get it over with.

The office was in turmoil the next

day,

someone told me they had suspended

a temp,

for not delivering some registered mail,

I hid the sign-in sheet in the

pile and silently proceeded to my desk,

as if it was just another

ordinary day.

For some reason, call it luck,

I never heard another word

about the episode,

I chose never to bring it up!

MCC

Out of Gas

Out of Gas (PMxxv)

The minutes ticked by on my

dash clock,

slowly counting to six o'clock,

I was parked across from

the office at the paper

distributors.

For some reason I couldn't

face up to going to work.,,

The weather was not bad

according to letter carrier

standards but it was

wednesday,

and even though I had gone

past my point of no return

when I got out of bed, I

had convinced myself on the

ride in that I wouldn't be

productive that day.

I watched as people slowly

began to show up for

work,

lazily getting out of their

cars and trudging that few

feet to the front door.

Pain was etched on their faces

it had been a heavy week so

far and there was no reason

showing itself to make anyone

think it would be any lighter

today.

Nobody looked in my direction,

or so I thought,

I had the window cracked a

little just to let the smoke

escape, but people's minds

were elsewhere,

so I fit right into the

early morning scenery.

When the digital finally read

six o'clock,

I picked up my cell phone and

speed-dialled the office.

Peter answered the phone, probably

still had his jacket on as he had

just entered.

I told him I had a migraine

and that I wouldn't be in today,

he chuckled and said okay,

get better and we'll see you tomorrow,

I murmured something about going

to bed and he signed off

saying,

"have a safe drive home"

Sneaky little bastard, I thought.

I mused about what I would

do the rest of the day

while sitting in McDonald's,

doing the crossword

and devouring a McGriddle.

MCC

Modern Day Sisyphus

Modern Day Sisyphus (PMxxiii)

He walked beside the old man

and he marvelled at him each

day he was there.

His hair was white, tinges of

grey meeting long sideburns

streaming down to the chin to

meet more grey stubble which

must have grown half an inch

immediately after shaving.

He was a hunchback, Quasimodo

letter carrier with an actual hump

that reached and crossed

over his neck. He walked as

though one leg was one foot

shorter than the other,

always at the same pace, his

head comically bobbing with a

permanent shit-eating grin

etched on his lips.

He didn't speak much but

when he did, saliva would

fly between sentences making

people keep at least a three foot

barrier to stay dry.

He didn't move quickly

but he made progress

making a limp seem like a

normal gait.

His hands sorted mail like

a machine, carpal tunnel

syndrome had set in but he

adapted his movement of the

gnarled claws to get the

letters where they were

supposed to go.

One day he watched him

change his socks before heading

out,

his feet were almost black

surrounded by huge yellow

toenails that passed the edges

of his toes making his feet one

size larger. Arches had disappeared

and callouses and skin had become

one, all at once looking brittle

enough to break but in reality

as hard as the thickest leather

soul.

He ate a cheese and onion sandwich

before leaving,

same thing everyday, no teeth

evident,

younger men would complain of aches

and pains, and take sick days for

sniffle,

he would hear, and smirk with contempt.

MCC

Meltdown

Meltdown (PMxxi)

His breakdown was imminent,

even O could tell without

amy medical background.

He was close to retirement,

less than six months.

He used to be the best

carrier in the station.

His work was always done, first,

and he used to sit and smile

and drink a coffee

while he waited for final

call.

He would look out at the rest

of us as if we were inferior,

running around at the last

minute,

stuffing bags and getting them

off to the drivers before

they left.

He would sit there, smiling,

drinking his coffee

the supervisor never bothered

him,

always supposed he had the

job done,

one less person to

worry about.

One day around final call,

he was there desperately

putting up mail,

his steaming coffee was

on the desk next to him but

it hadn't been touched.

He was on fire, sweating

profusely and if I'm not

mistaken a steady stream

of curses was coming out of

his mouth.

I left before him, he had

finally sat down to drink

his cold coffee,

a look of defeat permeated

his being and I felt bad

for him.

The next day he lasted about

an hour,

trays of mail hit the floor,

the supervisor, stunned, asked

what was wrong,

he told the supervisor to

go fuck himself!

He walked out onto the dock

and tossed his coffee cup

at the back of a truck,

smashing the cup and window

into a million pieces,

he carried on to his car and

disappeared,

I never saw him again.

MCC

Bored Law Enforcement

Bored Law Enforcement (PMxii)

Out of one corner of his

eye, he saw the cop being

shown where the office was

by another employee.

He wondered for a moment

what he was doing there

and then he promptly put it

out of his mind.

Only to pop back in five

minutes later when he was

summoned to the office.

His mind raced as he made his

way down the aisle,

he could see the cop in the

office window,

had somebody died?

was somebody dying?

He thought of his mother who

had been ill for some time,

but why would they send the

police to tell him?

Sara introduced him to the cop

when he walked in,

he was grim, but he looked more inconvenienced

than anything else.

He noticed with great relief that

he had not reached for his gun

or handcuffs.

Officer Friendly quickly got to the

point.

Apparently he had threatened to

beat up Fonzie the week

previously.

He couldn't remember the incident

and it was not really in his

nature to threaten people with

a beating,

so he naturally denied it.

The cop was angry,

not at him, but at Fonzie

for wasting his time.

There was a lot of gang crime

in the area at that time

and the police were very busy.

They didn't have time to

keep an eye on rogue postal

workers threatening their

fellow employees.

He basically just told me to

behave and left it at that,

he left very quickly

his radio squawking about

a nearby accident.

As he walked back to his

desk he looked for Fonzie,

he saw him at the back

pretending to work and a smile

on his face.

Grinning from ear to ear.

He waited a second for Fonzie

to look up at him,

when he did,

he drew his fingers across his

neck,

universal symbol for

I'm going to fucking kill you.

He decided to take the rest of

the day off,

picking up his bag,

he walked out the back door.

MCC

Lousy Microcosms

Lousy Microcosms (PM xxii)

There is an undertone of hatred

and hostility here that

has soaked into the walls

and the very office

furniture.

The President hates us

all,

with our petulant whining

and our slew of insignificant problems

that take up too much

of her day,

resulting in lost time and a

smaller bonus.

The senators dislike us

for the same reasons but are

not as far removed from us to

hate us yet.

Those that have moved up from

our place

forget forget what it was like to face

the weather,

and don't remember the actual time

it took when the loads

got heavier.

They don't make much more

money than us and we are better

protected,

so why is their entire day

focused on babysitting a bunch

of adults?

The pages hate the runners

because they only work

four hours a day,

the runners hate the pages

because they sit around on their

asses all night and talk. They

make too many mistakes and

make their jobs harder.

The regents put too much

paper up and put magazines out

late so the runners have to

work harder and can't leave

earlier.

The knaves are slow,

and they gossip too much when

they should be working.

There are also untouchables,

the walking wounded,

bent over hunchbacks with

broken hips and sprained

shoulders, gimpy knees,

obesity and heart disease,

alcoholics and drug addicts,

barely able to walk and always

on the verge of being

fired.

They meander through the easiest

work, like ghosts punching a

time clock, every tissue used

until the fire is extinguished.

The horror... The Horror...

MCC

Nobody's Listening

Nobody's Listening (PMxx)

I feel the sting of indifference

enter my body and fill my

soul with bitter venom

infecting my bloodstream and

rendering me a seething mass

of hatred and sadness.

I pull my socks all the way up

almost to my balls

and hope to plod on with that

very Anglo piece of advice.

The socks fall so fast and

my garters are useless to grab

them and perhaps give me

a fighting chance.

I make the phone calls I am

supposed to make,

and keep the appointments

with the people I am

supposed to see.

They look through me, hoping

I will go away

and disappear from their list

of people they are supposed

to fix.

I walk out of these meetings

knowing my problems have

not been solved,

and at best I have only

delayed the inevitable and

perhaps even extended my

period of suffering.

They think they've fooled me

into a sense of security

and sanity, a strong mix

of depravity and stupidity.

I have not been fooled.

I found myself thinking the

other day,

of just jumping on a plane

and hoping to land somewhere

less hostile,

more welcoming.

Strangely I find myself in

Nigeria of all places,

noted in my brain is a picture

postcard I was sent by

an Israeli friend,

of a woman potmaker,

showing off her pot in the

streets of Lagos.

When I got out of

the airport I would find

this woman,

and ask her to teach me her

artisan trade.

I would hide my non-blackness

with a couple of weeks

in the sun,

and then I could blend in,

and make pots,

and everything would work out

okay.

MCC

Admonishment!

Admonishment (PM xi)

She sat across from me behind

her small desk in a large

office.

I didn't know what to make of

her,

and I knew she didn't know

what to expect from me.

The Human Rights Lady,

I had been ordered to visit

he today on account of

something I had said to a

co-worker,

something like he should kill

everyone if we pissed him off

so much.

I was only kidding, sort of,

but I had said it loud enough

for a weasel bitch in the office to

hear.

I had been made an example and

I just wanted to get this over

with,

before I git fed up and killed

someone!

She told me why I was there

and why I had to learn to

be careful of what I said.

I stifled the urge to start

an argument and agreed I should not have said it,

but,

it was a small station where

I knew everyone,

and surely they realized I

was only joking.

She looked stressed,

she groaned, a little noise

to make me feel as though

I was a moron.

"You need to say that you

understand you were wrong

and that your actions and

and words were unacceptable

in the workplace," she frowned

at me across the desk.

"I understand," I choked,

"but",

"No buts," she snapped.

I sighed and gave up,

"I understand."

She made me sign a letter

stating that I had committed

an offense,

that I understood

the consequences,

and that if it came up

again I could be charged

under the Human Rights Act,

Article # blah, blah,

fucking blah!

I try not to speak above a

dull whisper.

I don't discuss religion,

politics,

misogyny,

race,

sexual orientation,

and especially transvestites,

who seem to have more rights

than anyone in this

new era of complete

love and understanding.

Shut the fuck up and try to

be understanding of

hermaphrodites,

they are people too!

I was once admonished for

professing my love

for Mary Magdalene,

as though I had said something

sick?

MCC

Facing Your Boulder

Facing Your Boulder (PM xix)

I am certainly being

punished by my faceless

corporation.

The audacity of becoming sick

and not living up to my

potential has pissed off

someone in the upper

hierarchy.

I was destined to slug it out

at least another twenty more years out

on the street,

plodding through cold, icy

winters and

humid summer heat.

They needed people to climb

all those stairs with fifty

pounds strapped to

their backs,

or spend a morning in a

blizzard,

pushing against the wind

to make each step,

bent over forty-five degrees to

deliver some asshole his

welfare cheque or notices for

immigrants that they had been

granted status and they

could continue to collect

social assistance.

Clerks are derided here and

treated very poorly

second class citizens

relegated to perform the

most menial of tasks under

the whip of some minor

community college graduate

who still lives at home with their parents.

Some supervisors are ex-letter carriers

who noted for their stupidity

and willingness to follow orders,

are put in charge of their]peers

and expected to get results.

They encounter much

resentment and hatred and

last only as long as they

become less human and forget

the trials they once had to

undergo with their fellow

human beings.

The weak and the soon

find themselves on their way

out the door.

Its a round about route and

very tiring,

the fight is lost when the fire

goes out and the ability to

fight back is lost.

Much cleaner to have them

quit,

than to be fired.

MCC

Rare Ideas

Rare Ideas (PM xvi)

The mosquitos are out tonight

in force,

I can hear them whirring above

my head,

and occasionally one makes it

into my ear,

and the echo is intense.

I dig inside my ear to kill it

but I fear it will stay in there

dead,

and rot out the insides.

I wait for it to fly out and

it always does,

yet the feeling of something flying

around in your head is

most agonizing.

A rare thought will do the same

thing in my brain,

passing through to make a

brilliant point or maybe

entering just to remind me

of how stupid I am.

Bad decisions begin like that,

not quite acceptable to the

gray matter,

yet strong enough to somehoe

overpower reason and become

the way of things

the security guards in my brain

are not doing their job

properly,

they should be screening these

retarded thoughts and not

let them onto the inner sanctum.

I guess I am only paying them

minimum wage,

and I am getting what I paid

for.

Now the big question is,

do I fire them and hope to find

better ones that will work for the

same price?

Or do I negotiate with the ones present,

or maybe offer them dental

and eyeglass coverage.

MCC

Valium

Valium (PMx111)

I am in somewhat of a daze

today,

the remnants of zopiclone

and valium are still running

motor parts of my brain

making concentration frankly

impossible,

conversations are short and to

the point, I don't really

have anything to say at the

moment,

and forget the question I

am asking,

in the middle of asking it.

Nobody has noticed, I don't

think,

because the kids are gone,

no longeer needing to wake early

to go to school,

throwing some vanilla rice krispies

into a lake and letting them sit

there. I don't care how much he eats

so long as he eats. Our

doctor told us that a baby will never

starve itself,

they eat when they are hungry,

and thats it.

I'm having the most trouble

keeping my eyes open at

the moment.

They are not working properly.

Looking back at xiii I can say

that I missed the blue of orange

whatever that means, I'll

try and take a walk and shake

out those nasty infiltrators.

MCC

A Time to Quit

A Time to Quit (PMx)

I almost slid off the road

three times, just on the way

to work.

It was raining in the middle

of winter and the earth had

had become a sheet of solid ice.

I arrived at work to find a

quarter of the people had already

called in sick,

I had lost my chance by my

initial appearance.

There was a lot of mail and an

equally large amount of flyers to

be delivered.

Sometime in bad weather we

were allowed to leave some

behind.

Today the bitch said no,

everything had to go.

The wind was blowing the rain

and I was soaked within

minutes.

Ice had formed on my face

and my rainwear was drenched,

making it useless,

I had my cleats on but I

still slipped on the icy parts,

doing a little dance and hoping

not to fall on the hard ice.

The mail on my bag became saturated,

and the flyers fell apart as they

made the trip from my hand

to the mailbox.

They were rendered unreadable

but I had little choice

and continued on my

foolhardy adventure.

I have never been so cold and

so wet,

my boots had filled with water

and my feet had become numb.

Each step became slower and the

pain increased in my legs as my

skin froze and rubbed against

my frozen icy pants.

The mail was destroyed,

I was pouring cocktails of Hydro Bills

and Mastercard statements

into mailboxes with a garnish

of Pizza Hut flyers disintegrating

as they fell.

The streets were empty as I

continued my lonely travail,

after I had fallen the

third time I stopped

counting.

The ice was stinging my

cheeks yet I could feel warm

tears dropping down,

melting the ice and as I

stifled the urge to cru I

realized I was already crying.

The last hour passed in a daze

and as I trudged back to my

car,

I sat in the front seat so wet

and miserable, I couldn't feel my feet.

My cigarettes had become doused

and I had nothing to smoke, it

seemed the heater in the car did

not start working until I pulled

into my driveway.

I came so close to quittng

that day.

MCC

One Red Baron

One Red Baron (PMviii)

Red had signalled him to

sneak out for a smoke so he

followed him out through te

back dock.

He didn't want the bitch to see

him going out again or she

would definitely get bent on

an estrogen-induced power trip

and anti-smoking tirade.

As soon as Red got out the

door he pulled a beer out of

his coat.

Sleeman's honey lager, It

looked real good but since he

didn't drink anymore he declined

the silent offer when Red tipped the

bottle in his direction.

By this time he had his cigarette

lit.

Red had downed the first bbr

and reached back in his coat for

another one.

His sip of beer would empty half

the bottle.

He had finished three by the time

they had done the smoke break.

He tossed the empties in the

dumpster on his way back in

the pffice, the smash of breaking

glass reminded him him of his

teenage year, shooting bbs at

empty beer and liquor bottles.

Red became more expressive and

talkative as the morning wore

on,

they went on two more smoke

breaks so he had drunk nine

bottles of beer by the time they were

ready to go out on the road.

He saw Red get in his Mustang

and peel out of the parking

lot,

plastic adornment testicles

hung from the rear bumper.

How the fuck could he walk

five miles, delivering mail after

drinking that much beer?

The logistics were staggering to me

then I considered stopping to take

a piss and I never knew how he

managed.

His name was Red, he was good

friend.

MCC

Water Under a Bridge

Water Under a Bridge (PMvii

The crisis began early in the

morning,

whispers began as soon as

he arrived.

He heard someone had been caught

throwing mail off a bridge,

in broad daylight,

they had parked a company

truck on a busy bridge,

and proceeded to toss three bags

of mail into the Dniester River.

They received a total of ten

phone calls,

all with the truck's number

and most had vague descriptions of the

culprit.

The mail had been recovered and

brought back to the station,

the bags had been emptied

and the letter were stacked near

a heater,

apparently to dry off.

He got close to it and he

could really smell it.

Dead fish, sea weed and just a

plain dirty river aroma

wafted from the pile.

He looked at all the mail and

wondered what the people would

say when they had it delivered

to them.

It would still be wet and it

would certainly still smell.

He smiled to himself and wondered

if the guy thought he was going to get

away with it,

or was it just an act of sheer

desperation to quickly rid himself

of the last of the day's delivery.

What was going through his head as

he was doing it and what was he

thinking now?

How did they get the mail out of the

river?

Did they have special boats they used

for such a purpose?

He questioned everyone that morning

but found out more information.

The next day he found out the guy

had been given two weeks sick

leave to see his doctor and get

some help.

Two weeks later....... he was back,

delivering mail.

MCC

Me as Meursault

Me as Meursault (PMxvii)

At the top of every hour he

heard the click on the door

as the guard looked in through

the slot to make sure he hadn't

cheated the guillotine.

Why didn't they just leave

the fucking thing open so he

wouldn't have to feel that noise

so violently every night.

He had only one days left,

five to be exact.

The Governor had told him

to kiss his ass and that was it,

there would be no last minute

reprieve.

They had tested the guillotine

yesterday using sugar cane.

They had made a bundle of

about a dozen poles and then

sliced them in half.

Sweet water seeped out of the

ends of the cane,

and the guards gave them

to the squealing children,

who lapped it up, he hoped

they had cleaned the blade well.

He had found a roach in his

soup that day at lunch,

swimming on the edge of the

bowl, half drowned yet still

making that effort to survive

by getting out of the bowl.

He was not to be so lucky,

his bowl was too large and he

was already too wet,

he rescued the roach and put

him on the window to dry out

in the sun and escape.

He had chosen his last meal,

flattened duck with black bean

sauce and parisienne potatoes,

leeks and green beans.

For dessert, a butterscotch

sundae with pralines and

toffee crumbs.

They were very good with

their last meals,

and they would serve it

to you at noon so you

had at least twelve hours

to digest some of it.

There was nothing else to do

now but while away the

hours, it could now bw

measured in hours, until

his life ended in a glint

of steel followed by an

incredibly fast gush of

blood.

It would be embarrassing,

knowing his body would roll

off into a cart and his head

would fall forward into a basket.

He shivered as he pictured his

end and then sighed,

lighting up another cigarette

he tried to cry but the tears

would not come,

he had forgotten how.

Angrily he got up and checked

on the roach he had left on

the window.

It had moved and was almost

beyond the bars.

Using his cigarette, he burnt its

abdomen,

watching it curl up into a

charred ball he felt at

peace and understood why

he would receive no clemency.

MCC

Peanut Butter and Tomato Sandwich

Peanut Butter and Tomato Sandwich (PMxiv)

I noticed more and more

the rolling waves,

almost tsunami-like in their

fierceness.

They were in my head yet I

had no idea where they

had come from,

and more importantly

what it was they wanted.

My focus would only last

seconds and I would find

myself staring blankly at a

wall,

trying to make sense of the

shadows,

that frequently danced

fooling me into believing

that I was their creator,

and they were not just

random bits of light projected

by the movement of a hundred

different employees,

who unlikely were paying very

little attention to me.

I hung on, moving forward and

hoping the dense fog would

disappear and bring me back to

the real world,

where I never belonged,

nor had any inkling to join.

I was still chasing shadows on

the wall when I realized that

lunch was over,

and I had been left by

my peers,

unwoven,

left to fend for myself against

demons, bent on destroying

my livelihood in the name

of corporate greed.

If someone above you always

seems to be holding a gun

your only hope is to keep fighting until

you know they have gone away.

MCC

Be'ersheva In MY Neurons

Be'ersheva In MY Neurons (PMxv)

What planet was I on last

Friday?

I remember being here but for

the life of me I cannot construct

what I did,

what I wrote,

who I spoke to and why.

Feelings of idiocy soak my inner

pulse,

and I worry if I offended anyone

in passing,

or just from the act of sitting in

my chair and dreaming from

side to side.

I feel the pulse, the heartbeat

of something moving towards

me,

like the score from Alien,

I can't see what's coming but

I can distinctly feel tentacles

reaching out for me

and I know something

is not as it should

be.

I have envisioned a live

circus act in my brain,

acrobats flying overhead, a

lion tamer without the top hat,

various clowns in various

stages of undress, and some

only partly made-up, frowns

etched on frowny faces making

them doubly sad and even

more disturbing.

I watch as the man is shot

out of the cannon and he disappears

through the hole he made in the

canvas of the tent,

straight from a Yogi Bear cartoon.

I have left the circus now and

I wander home through the

empty streets,

stepping over garbage,

all of it seeming to come from

McDonald's as if they had

somehow trained the garbage

cans to reject that filth.

I see a car's headlights in the

distance and I hide in a

doorway,

feeling that someone is looking

for me,

even probably wanting to

hurt me.

I watch as the car passes

the driver, eyes looking forward

does not pay me a glance,

yet the passenger has stared

deep into my eyes,

fondling the skin of my soul

and preparing to infiltrate.

I look away into time and

watch as the car continues along

the street and out of sight.

Five minutes later I am back home

in bed,

the clock is ticking,

and the cat is purring at

the foot of the bed.

It is hot, but the window is

wide open allowing the aroma

of the street to waft it's way

in.

I sleep but I do not dream,

I only dream when I am

awake.

MCC