Month: July 2015

Potential Energy

I am nothing more than potential energy

vacant yet pulsing with a lust for synergy

futile is the hope and not even in emergency …

the knight is seen nowhere, even in dire jeopardy



i don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is who I obey.

When Your Liver Begins a Dialogue and you have to stop playing dumb

I feel my liver talking to me tonight…”Athena, I can’t do this much longer.”

I felt that vibe from my liver area earlier tonight.  I’ve actually been feeling it for a few months but I’d rather ignore it and pretend that’s not real.

I’m really good at pretending shit’s not real.  I have been exceptionally good at denying Hepatitus C for the past 15 years, so you’ll understand my relief at the knowledge of the newfound cure to hep c.  I don’t have to ignore it, anymore, because there’s a cure.

Seriously, when I was like 23, I ended up at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana.  I don’t even remember what sent me there.  I was probably just really tired and sick from shooting dirt.  I was homeless at 23, because I had been technically ‘homeless’ since I was 21.  My parents, my dad and my step-mom, who raised me, had “washed their hands” of me, and my real mom was as fucked up as I was, at that time.

My real mom drank herself to death and I guess the apple don’t fall that far from the tree.  Another way to say it might be:  maybe I am that bad of a soul that God wanted me to not only watch my mom drink herself to death, but wanted, also, for me to drink myself to death, too, while my five children watched.

So, at Charity Hospital, I remember waiting in a 14-hour line, the next thing I remember is being in a small examination room with a short, Indian doctor, who told me:  “YOU MUST NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BEER.  NO ALCOHOL.  YOU MUST NEVER DRINK AGAIN.”

I was feeling so bad that I’m sure I was like, “oh yeah, I’ll never do that again”, halfway meaning it.

I suppose I ended up drunk as soon as I could after being released from the hospital and getting me a bag of powder, then shooting it, and then becoming so paranoid that unless I had a xanbar, the only way for me to come back down was to get drunk.

The only reason I ever started drinking in my early 20’s was to kill the paranoid schizophrenia the cocaine induced.  I don’t use the term, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’, lightly, because when I shot dope, that was exactly my diagnosis.  Good thing coke made me skinny, or it would’ve been really hard to position myself in the middle of the side-by-side washer and dryer at that crack house that one time I did that for 4 hours.  My God, the auditory hallucinations alone were as real as, well, the real sound of police kicking in the door and asking for me by my name.

So the part of my abdomen that lies directly beneath the right side of my rib cage is decidedly tender and somewhat achy. I have also been experiencing some other symptoms that I care not to relate.  This sick feeling isn’t really freaking me out, but I think it’s causing the depressive state of mind that I have been ignoring, yet experiencing the last couple weeks….perhaps months.

In my normally depressed mood, I sleep til about 11:30 a.m. or 12:00, after having gone to bed no earlier than 3 a.m. Here, lately, I am not waking until 12:15 p.m and then continue to sleep until 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., when I went to bed by 9 p.m. the previous night.  I really don’t want to get up at 2 but I know my dog probably has to pee, so I get myself up to let him out.  And…my God, when I open that door and the sun hits me, I feel like the undead.  I hate it and wonder why it is that I don’t want to get up anymore.  I love the sun and there is nothing going on here, at home, that should make me not want to arise.  As far as the rest of my life/complaints go, things are fucking great.  In fact, things are better than they have been in a long time.

I really don’t have any complaints…except that one about my firstborn son and his mean and angry father.


So now I am at the metaphorical “CROSSROADS”.

Do I want to continue to drink, knowing that my liver light is blinking and bad kidneys run in the family?

Or do I want to just keep on keeping on, refusing to be a quitter, until I meet the reaper again, without him taunting me?

Fuck Decisions.

I hate decisions.


I have so much I could write about but no laptop to type, and I am sticking to that excuse.

My mood is far beyond depressed,  which always means I need to get it out of me in some sort of prose.

Everything is coming apart again.

The ground never remains level beneath my feet.  However,  I really do try (at least in my head before I go to bed) to be the ” forever optimist”.  And the more unstable things become,  the more epiphanies of God I am granted witness.

So that’s pretty cool.

It’s unfortunate that I forget most of them.