I raise my glass to the pain. The pain of new life. The pain of a dead life. The pain of cycle.

Mourning comfort and security. I can say, honestly, I liked being Married. When it was good. Something stable in an ever rocking world. Sadly, there’s more to it than titles and misinterpreted perceptions.

Cheers to the rose-colored glasses. Cheers to the naive.

Beer Me my Baggage

Children. Spawn. Minnies. They have one-upped me yet again. Or have cause for me to be jealous.


adolescent, anklebiter, babe, baby, bairn, bambino, brat, cherub, chick, cub, descendant, dickens, imp, infant, innocent, issue, juvenile, kid, kiddie, lamb, little angel, little darling, little doll, little one, minor, mite, moppet, neonate, nestling, newborn, nipper, nursling, offspring, preteen, progeny, pubescent, shaver, small fry, sprout, squirt, stripling, suckling, tadpole, teen, teenager, teenybopper, toddler, tot, tyke, urchin, whippersnapper, young one, youngster, youth

The blinding light that is realization and responsibility to my own-self is closing me off. The catastrophe that is worry and expectation is like the calm before the storm. Here I am preemptively calling out to my soon-to-be disabilities.

Traveling with a carry-on? Yes. Because I’m sure some of my over-stuffed baggage will get lost along the way. My carry-on will be a good indicator as to what all that was about, quantifying my baggage in a mere hallucinative mirage. It’s there but not. Desperately clinging to what is within the confines of the zippers and protective layers. Without that baggage I am what? Memories forgotten. Experiences once pronounced as unforgettable are nothing but recollection.


noun things that encumber one’s freedom, progress, development, or adaptability; impediments: intellectual baggage that keeps one from thinking clearly; neurotic conflicts that arise from struggling with too much emotional baggage.

The “children” have it right. The no fear. The innocence. They have the ability to stumble, fall, bleed, band-aid and move forward. Forward to stumble, fall, bleed and band-aid all over again.

Riddle me this: After falling off a horse one is supposed to pick oneself up and get back on. What if said horse than tramples rider into an almost comatose state, life trickling, then kisses said rider on the cheek. Are you ready for more?

Guess that wasn’t a riddle.

Oh Minnies of society, infect upon me your ways.

Disjointed Applications

Adjustabilty of my minds mental process has been compromised. Juxtaposed into the previous nights thoughts. Dreams. Replays. Here I sit stunted. Wondering all those pathetic wanders. Compromised. To produce any structural comprehension…there is a screw loose. Needing a prescription for growth hormones, specific. Targeted.

I look out my window. Weather report. Jacket no jacket. Start car. Robotic. Method madness. At least these certain things I can do blindly. Memorized. Second to nature. Second to doing this since birth. Second to started my car after exiting the womb. Second to.

Band-Aid me. Neosporin. Hug me and let me cry.