Pot Helps pt. 25

Mom?

Yes

Mom, I need you to use better punctuation with me please. Prove to me you want to be here.

Ok.

Mom?

Yes?

That is better.

Why am I here?

I brought you here.

Why?

Because I miss you.

Oh, well-

And because I hear this song 'Hunger Strike' and I think of things like the early 90's, your time, our time, when we lived in the cabin over summer and fashion was the way it was back then and I was a stupid ball of flesh and you would rock the stereo all day and the Van Morrison and Black Crowes stopped up in there in my brain somewhere back then and dropped off a little beacon that activates when I hear them again and it causes me to think of things like....like..., I guess it's just nostalgia.

That was a long time ago.

I know. But it isn't really, because I swear when the ringing timbre of a guitar or vocal melody punctures me in a way I feel for certain that I can look into and around and I can feel it around me somewhere like I'm in a chair blindfolded and it's some freshly cut, open orange being waved around my head in orbit and I know it's there for certain because it just is, because it's there, but the problem is I want to take a grand carnivorous bite out of all of it and to finally feel it all at once the death and the life OF IT ALL and the pure nasolacrimal emotion OF IT ALL, the pure, pineal orgasm of it and I just can't and the best I can get is one fleeting citrus whiff of it all around me and it's just too much sometimes because it's almost a huge letdown if not for it coming around again and again and teasing me and sucking me in to ponder and waste time wondering about it thinking about isolating things like death and such and getting all fucking confused about it and guessing myself up and down a fucking wall and the worst part is when I do get a good whiff of that citrus, light-filled emotion my first reaction is that I should write about it.

Wait a minute,-

But when I go to write it all down it's not there because it's like, how do you digest a whiff of something?

Hmm.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

Is any of this real?

Unfortunately no. You are dead and I'm trying to fill voids with poetry and musings. And dialogue about how I ressurected you, on page, in order to find out what you know about what it is that drives me nuts day after day and what forces me to do the poetry and musings and dialogue.

Hmm

And if I can't even breathe enough life into to give you punctuation then what the fuck can I even do anyways?

You can die

I can write.