Operation Ka-Naw-Ledge

I know that it’s my semi-permanent barrier to emotional growth.

I know that it’s my ego shield, protecting my inner-child from oblivion.

I know that when it’s gone the trauma creeps into the frame. 

 

I know that with it my mouth opens wide and obscenity splatters.

 

I know that with it, my wildness is preternatural, eyes glowing in the dark.

 

I know that my dire wolf howls when the brain bathes in the bubbles.

 

I know that I have had the best of times that I barely ever remember.

 

I know that my time skitters across the floor, my holy memories wane.

 

I know that the echoes of last night’s concert repeat in my head ad nauseum.  

 

I know that it kills my soul that I know it grabbed my family by its lapels. 

 

I know that in my photos I am emotionally absent, but surely stable. Wink-wink.

 

I know that my crying progeny chatter behind my back and hate me for it.

 

I know that music tickles me more deeply with it, my lovely, existential crutch.

 

I know that am surely convinced when those I love abandon it and walk in the light.

 

I know that without it my inner weaknesses are like a raw nerve exposed to the air. 

 

I know that disease is a strong word, but it’s likely an apropos term. 

 

I know that the bubbles break my DNA and crazily curtail corporeal longevity. 

 

I know that I feel the field of vision narrowing. Is it honestly age, or merely the bubbles?