Apr 18, 2020

And each time it’s like being reborn, the shock to my senses. A lack of language and a state of sober observation. Childlike and pondering, through the pupil, open, new reality. I learn.

I’m back home now from the beeping glass palace, from the crimson doused gowns, from the caretakers and helpers, from the parade of antibiotics, and visits from no one but the warning sign and boundary crossing needles forced through the slight flesh door of my slow pumping arms. It’s a life of royalty, a prison, but no one really asks for it. From its doors opened, I’m raptured new.

My sleeves are bruised, covered polka dots, cement packed and heavy, holding me in place. Physically grounded by my body, I’m pulled deep into rest- to the okay to be not okay.

But still a child, I’m clowning around, as usual. I delight in our fun house made from scratch and make believe. Scratching on the record, till the wailing is a show tune, an old fashioned song... I pull a flower from my hat, and present it to you, as if a mime, who passes along with the bloom, a smile.

Blank postcard. Ex, Oh. Ex, Oh. Wish you were here…