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A Buck Short

Mondays Wednesdays Fridays
have evolved into early week specials.
As I listen to
Natalie Maines Cover ‘Mother,’ I am in so much pain.

I had my MRA yesterday evening.
I approached the white tube breathless. I laid upon the tiny plastic table, and I was strapped in.
Clear duct tape across my forehead, as the brain apparatus was screwed in over me.

I found myself in Meditation.
A practice I let go almost 3 years ago.

After the physical and mental torture ended, I stepped down then off the tiny plastic table, and vertigo grabbed my hand.

My Father walked me to his red
Jeep as I contemplated passing out.

I opened my eyes as I sat on my dead Uncle’s couch in my parents
family room.

Language. I lost it. My way of
communicating broke down.
Imbalance swimming in my brain as I worry about the internal explosion I experienced the week before.


I sat numb, thinking
The End is more
possible then ever.
And, all I had left was something I gave up years ago.

I’m falling short.
In silence.

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