I enjoy the ones who use words like paradigm and empirical.

Those folk surely have it all together

Not me, though. Little me. I’m just a rotting vegetable eating meat sack, marinating and languishing in my own juices.

Having said that, yesterday, the veins - my veins - broke through this crazy, crawling concrete skin, exiting out and snaking off in all directions, seeking something, anything to bond with other than me, their host.

At least that was the impression I got based on available evidence.

This made me quite a bit sad. Have I become so difficult to live with that my insides want to be outside?

Betrayal is not a strong enough word.

Taking stock of what was left of myself, I tried calming and centering, adopting an arbitrary approach to what was clearly an outrageous and embarrassing situation.

I spoke in thought to my evacuating innards, explaining to the tyrannic tributary traitors

that without me, they were nothing. This was a codependent coexistence and I was its front man.

Prying a pulmonary from a chair leg, I carefully folded it back inside my chest cavity, only to have the mutinous bastard work its way back through my fingers and wrap itself around the TV.

This vena labyrinth of tissue and plasma that had invaded my once living room was now a prison.

I resembled a grotesque, emaciated octopus. Or that alien from Alien 2.

I've dealt with rejection all my life, but nothing could ever prepare me for something of this magnitude

Hell, I've had the pin pulled on me by the best. Generally what happens is they walk away shaking their heads and blaming our association on either a momentary lapse of reason or alcohol or both. I never worried that much; never been big on attachment anyway.

I was an only child that was very much poisoned early on by his own company.

Never always this detached though.

The kicker was the day my imaginary friend ripped my heart out.

“Its not you, it’s me,” said Randell, as he left via a portal at the rear of my closet. I shut down that day.

Moving along.

I haven't budged from this blood soaked sectional sofa in something like 22 hours.

The veins - my veins - have anchored themselves to a variety of heavy objects, and I am pinned down and being held to ransom by my own body. A body I thought I knew well. A body that, until recently, I had no reason to mistrust.

I hate to moan, though. We all have our problems in life. This just took me by surprise, is all, and I really need a change of underwear.

I'll bounce back, no doubt. I always do, albeit anemic and pissed off. And I will extract fair revenge.

I will hammer each and every one of those traitorous scumbags with whatever low-grade heroin I can find, or I will die trying. This is personal.

Cheers

She didn’t mind washing dishes but she hated what it did to her hands. Then again, she always hated her hands. She could be fresh from the hair dresser, wearing her favorite tweed skirt and modest — but flattering — heels, and her entire confidence would combust after a brief glimpse of them. With each year, they more closely resembled rudimentary art projects, her varicose veins and arthritic fingers held together by Elmer’s glue and popsicle sticks. Unbelievably, these hands became even more monstrous after a dishwashing session, where their already mangled appearance putrified after thirty minutes of soap and water.

Needless to say, “The Aging Process,” as her books liked to call it, had affected her skin before her hair. She saw the physical embodiment of death’s approach in every wrinkle, every liver spot, every segment of dry, scabby skin. The occurrence of such deterioration framed by a mass of healthy, strawberry blonde hair unnerved her, for the contrast made her look even older than she was, like someone’s ill grandmother wearing a desperate wig.

“Julia, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, this is normal. And I still think you’re beautiful. I’ll always think you’re beautiful,” Bill would assure her.

“Thank you sweetie, I needed that,” she would respond, wondering if a human could strangle one’s own neck with one’s own hands.

But those were the harder days and today had been a relatively painless one. Bill was out playing golf so she spent a productive morning at the beauty salon. Her place was a traditional one, the kind that won’t be around after her generation is through. Where women stay for half a day, worrying about health and husbands and their grandchildren’s moral compasses.

“Julia Julia!” the owner always greeted her. She liked that the place existed in a vacuum.

After the salon, she was in a good mood. With hair coiffed and set, she made a quick stop at the grocery store on her way home where, driven by a spontaneous bout of contentment, she bought some sunflowers. Her pleasant mood continued to the check-out line, where she almost succeeded in trying not to fixate on her rheumatic hand against the bouquet.

Once home, she put everything down and headed straight to the kitchen. The atmosphere was slightly colder in this room, and she noticed that all the dishes had been cleaned and piled on the drying mat next to the sink. When she left earlier that day, they had needed washing.

“Bill?” her voice drew out.

No response.

Hadn’t Bill said he was going to play golf until about three or four in the afternoon? He must have stopped back at the house at some point, though she didn’t understand why he would feel compelled to do a chore.

The tinkering sound of ceramics brought Julia out of her thoughts, and she caught movement by the sink. It was a clean white plate, traveling on its own towards the drying mat. It slowly glided along until it landed facedown on the counter. Julia was struck but the scene continued, and from beneath the plate crawled out an animal — a thing — completely new to her.

It was an ovular creature, about three inches long and covered in wiry fur or bristles. One might think it was a mouse, but further examination eliminated that as a possibility. Firstly, the creature was incredibly ugly, shiny, and colored somewhere between a black-brown and a sickly green. More tellingly though, it was without eyes and joints, like some kind of bacterial mass. It perched on the edge of the sink, as if preparing to descend, but it sensed her presence. The creature nodded at Julia, then continued on its journey.

Quietly walking so as not to disturb it, she approached the sink, inside of which she saw the little force in action. It rubbed its body all over a dirty bowl of cereal like a sponge, and left a perfectly clean trail in its wake. Julia was amazed at how well it cleaned grime. It approached hardened food by scraping it off with teeth that appeared to consist of only miniature molars. After removing this rough material, it shimmied its body once again, and the dish looked perfect. The creature then propped the bowl on top of its boneless body, capturing it like a pillow, and carried it up to the counter, where it dropped the bowl off amongst the other clean dishes.

After completing this task, it did what it had done before: stopped at the sink’s edge, acknowledged Julia’s presence, and then slid down to the bottom of the sink. The bowl had been its final project, and with nothing else to clean the creature wiggled into the garbage disposal, where it would settle until needed again.

For many minutes after its disappearance, Julia looked out the window above the sink. She saw her neighbors across the way, parents returning with their two kids from school. It must be at least 3 o’clock she thought.

Realizing Bill would be home soon, she ran the water and turned on the garbage disposal. 

Beneath the bark of this old tree lies the softest wood

You sit in my shade and dream of love

But my leaves fall to the ground with a thunderous crash

Each one tattooed with "I don't love you anymore"

Feverishly, you gather them with hopes of a phoenix

Only to have them crumble in your grasp

Turning to ash by the smoldering embers of your broken heart

F. Tipa

Sometimes I envision my own death.

Is it selfish of me to leave?

Or is it selfish to force me to stay?

Is there a right or wrong?

Is there a good or bad?

Heaven is much too far & hell is much too close.

If I jump, I can finally fly.

If I overdose, I can finally sleep.

If I cut, I can finally free this raging river.

But who would find me?

Who would I scar?

Who would I break?

My legacy would be nothing but guilt, confusion, & if only's.

They would forever wonder, forever blame, & forever regret.

"She suffered in silence."

I do.

"She said she was ok."

I'm not.

"She lied."

I have.

I suffer in silence because my pain isn't as tragic as everyone else's.

I say I'm ok because there are no words to describe how I feel.

I lie because if they really knew what was inside my head, it would devastate them.

This is my disorder.

This my chaos.

And yet without it, I have no idea who I would be.

I want to feel better, but I don't want to let go.

I am my disorder.

I am my chaos.

My bipolar friend, don't abandon me now.

What is a life without highs & lows?

We've lived together for so long that I don't know what I would do without you.

I need you even though you use me.

I love you even though you abuse me.

Sometimes I win the battle & other times you come out the victor.

During the day, you keep me wrapped warm in sheets.

And at night, you kiss me with creativity.

I'm both drawn to you & terrified of you.

One day, I might lose the will, the hope, the strength.

One day, I might give in & give up.

Sometimes I envision my own death, but on this very day, I am fighting.

I am punching you back.

I am pushing you down.

I am surviving.

We are surviving.

My bipolar friend, I need you to trust me.

I need you to work with me, not against me, please.

We could live in harmony & peace as one.

I promise you that one day we will discover the correct cocktail.

I promise you that our therapy is not a waste of time.

You don't have to destroy me to end this ache.

We can heal these wounds... together.

Banished by the circle for the secrets he'd let go

(Little parlour tricks even a five year old would know)

Abraca-bloody-dabra didn't cut it any more

Casting proper charms was what he was looking for

Karma was a thing in which he'd never quite believed

Mumbo-jumbo really; for the terminally aggrieved

After all, we're at fates' call; or so it always seems

Getting his revenge was no longer just pipe dreams

It's a pity that a circle can be spellbound by a square

Catharsis came in darkest flame; and so did some thin air...

keep her. carefully watch

long fingers tap truths

possess her like treasure,

gems shine from sunlight,

(her open window)

view her silhouette silently

arched foot moves to melody

unheard, she eyes far off

distant lives

(her other life, that

long-ago left life, forgotten)

your wealth is time, quilled

perfect in sea-blue ink

Gun control

sounds like a good thing

on the whole,

unless it’s my gun

in which case

it is only

used for fun

so no need

for government at all.

But in reality

you probably guess

I don’t possess a gun

at least not yet

and what

gives me pause

is thinking of

the other one

who does.

Selling what 

we've sown

to city slickers 

and camera clickers

who've never got

their hands dirty

outside of the

last deal struck. 

Now they are

supporting an 

older, rougher

fairer, life as

long as the 

dirt is taken off 

first of course. 

We are to be born alone, and we die the same way. 

The art of searching within is one most don't even begin to find until the journey is closing to an end. For those fortunate enough though, we have peace in solitude, and one comes along - and safeguards it. In this you find beauty, and a richer life most only dream of. 

a.b.Carleton