Endings

Here’s how you destroy a civilized society.

First, you remove all moral authority: “all priests are pedophiles.”

Second, you remove all civil authority: “all police are racist.”

Lastly, you remove all societal authority: “all cultural icons are perverse.”

And then you have the body of society without a moral or ethical spine.

Destroyed.

 

Beaten Path

It’s 2:56 am and I can’t sleep. It’s so disquieting listening to one’s own heartbeat in a dark and quiet room. Coupled with the jittery physical sensation caused by my new meds, and I’ve got my personal horror show with a rhythmic soundtrack provided by the erratic metronome of my heart.

Heart failure is a powerless position. I’m a problem solver. So I’m trying to figure out what to do. I guess the power is in compliance.

It’s so odd to realize a day arrives when your body works against you and becomes both the enemy and its torture.

Why post this shit? Because I can’t walk into the street and scream and the jitters are forcing the ejaculation.

And I know I’m running out of time.

Too soon my heart will beat me to death; too soon the sounds of my broken heart will become rote.  How much longer before my heartbreak provides a soundtrack to a beaten path?

Amid

middle-manMidlife: the captive of couldn’t. Boundaries: physical boundaries. Cautionary lines drawn by consequence. Medical care: continuation and not cure.

Midlife: the midst of people – surrounded by the people who’ve been chosen to matter.

Midlife: centered. The centerpiece. Emotionally, familially, and responsibly the center of care. Careful. Caretakers. Caregivers.

Bruised

UntitledThis morning I stood before a full length mirror and looked at the losing and the loss and the gone.

My chest is bruised the complexions of autumn. My groin is bruised the stains of a vineyard. My foot bleeds the rest of the ripened and the rotted. I rebandaged myself and tried not to cry.

I can’t take the loss. My soul is fragile. My courage is brittle. In my past I’d cocoon and wait to heal my hope.

Today I considered the similar of cocoon and casket. Both are Kafkaesque. The became differs. The was does not.

 

(Photo courtesy of medicalnewstoday.com)

Going Through It Together

20171019_061617The best aspect (okay only) of being sick? Examinations of Conscience. Inactivity makes one introspective and fear makes one reflective. I haven’t been as good of a man as I should have been. I should have been a better friend. Now I sit in waiting rooms alone and I know:

I’ve known people who were sick and I didn’t help them.

I’ve known people who were confined and I didn’t visit them.

I’ve known people who were alone and I didn’t sit beside them.

I’ve known people who were afraid and I didn’t soothe them.

I’ve known people who were troubled and I didn’t even ask them how they were.

I’m glad I’ve felt it.

Now I’ll amend my life.

Full Of It

4c226103_560180_701474409938421_8252415907119987040_nTomorrow.

Let him fix me or let me sit in a chair. I can’t keep up the propel. I don’t have the fuel of fortitude.

Staccatoed survival. Bed rests for spurts of purposeful.

Hyperbole. That’s been my branded. Full of it.

I’ve always been full: full of life, hope, love, sorrow, joy, fear, longing.

Now I’m filled with a new it: unpumped blood.

Irony?

A heart that won’t empty.

(Photo courtesy of metrotimes)