Fighting My Moods

I am fighting my moods
these days
and the little fuckers have the upper hand

They gang up,
attack by stealth
over the top, swinging from ropes
dirty knives between their teeth.

“I’m glad you can make light of this”
says one
grinning an unhealthy grin,
breath like a slaughterhouse.

“Fuckface,” says another mood
surlier than the first
“ever smell your own breath?”

I’ve learned that vigorous exercise
is good for keeping these fuckers at bay,
also, being tender with myself and
as mild as I can with others

I’ve been forbidden from exercise
the last few months,
first the asthenia from the poor man’s chemo
(you’d be poor if we charged you the actual price, bro)
weakness that made three flights of stairs a mountain
and now enforced rest after minor surgery,
nothing that will cause blood to flow
to the face.

“So you’ll have a fucking livid knife scar
down the side of your fucking nose,
pussy,” says a mood whose ass could be easily
by a long bike ride.

“but you’re too scared
to take a long bike ride
after so many weeks
now, aren’t you?” says the merciless
little momzer.

“Keep on in this vein all day,”
says another,
bland as a random statistic,
“see if we care.
You’re playing right into our hands,
you depressed motherfucker.”

“No need to call names,” I say,
with an exaggerated sniff
turned on a dime
into a determined smirk.

“Speak for yourself, bitch,”
say my ambitions
for the day,
in a rather nasty
fucking singsong.


I spend my days
with a dying cat,
conversing with
a talkative skeleton  

The cat is brutally cute,
but mean as a snake,
the skeleton is witty and
sometimes insightful,
but long, long dead

I am clearly the
pulling his strings
in conversation
as the cat looks away

My friends, shed no tear
for me
I’m doing what’s needed

there is no greater calling.


On Being Direct

It’s best to be direct,
though it can be painful 
while, say, 
pretending to converse 
with someone uncannily channeling
a beaming Christian Bale as American Psycho.
It’s easier to watch a horror movie
than to find yourself inside one 
trying to remain sincere
while looking into a funhouse mirror,
fun hogtied and bleeding,
gasping for breath.  
It’s fun until somebody loses an eye

One for nothin’

Went in to check on snoring Sekhnet, who, on about three and a half hours of sleep, set off for a job, under cover of darkness, and returned to creep up the stairs ten or eleven hours later, as I was writing.  

She was in a deep sleep when I went to check on her, make sure she had a sheet over her as she sprawled in front of the fan.

“Grandma picked a fig off the tree,” she murmured as I pulled a sheet over her shoulders.

“Your father’s fig tree?” I asked.

“Yeah, and she was picking a fig that wasn’t ripe and I said ‘grandma, that fig’s not ripe.’  And grandma said…” she mumbled, talking in her sleep.

“What did grandma say?” I asked her.

“I don’t know, you woke me up,” she said, and immediately began snoring again.

Fucking Moods

The mood is a slippery mother.  Wrote in my “therapy notebook” the other day:
Wrestling with demonically limber moods,
you cannot count on their sportsmanship, 
they grapple by their own rules, 
if any, 
as the frequent knees and elbows to the groin 
will keep reminding you.