haze of late

i can't wear my glasses
they're bent and foggy
it's morning and i'm writing
in the dark
things move more slowly now
as time spins by
my snag in the river

tiles go up five at a time
intermittent sporadic finish
to a bath i long to take
a bowel movement that never comes
until the final breath.

these days i wonder how i'll die
entubed or crushed drowned  maybe gun
fire tornado in my sleep orgasmically throat slit
terrorist from the sky carbomb airless goodbyes
then i let it go.

i wrote a ditty today about a kitty
and posted it on the ello it seems
to fit the mood big wide swaths of color
chunky clunky lines someone looks
over your shoulder and you leap

he told me i don't understand why
you don't write earlier and i just laughed
a cynical snortish monster
then closed the book write
he said but the mood was gone
i slept towards the bottom of the bed
and forgave him the next morning
because after all what am i doing
with it but therapy but thinking
out loud but passing tick tocks
to the next now
it never comes

i don't even have memories
to fall back on everything exorcised
on the altar of forgiveforget
so many whips and broken chains
every backwards glance salt in my eye
every dream dashed or ignored or replaced
by survival and what am i bitching
my god i wasn't born in somalia i didn't have
obstacles to overcome a famine to endure
a god to worship a tyrant to kill i
had a relatively easy life with small daily
strifes thousands of cuts maybe a huge
personal loss or two too early beheadings
when needed but with a dull
blade so the mess yeeah i hadda clean up
also daily repairs so maintenance seems to be
my thing tho i always wanted to be
 a librarian so i could smell books each
morning in a light filled quiet hush.