In fact, most days I have the waking dreams. I read the mad things said by people who I know know better. In awful dreams I snap back, sharply, with tectonics-shifting rage. In those dreams, the long line of fools gawk in shock and city mountains move. And then I’m left with the aftermath.

About the current reality; prose scarcely covers it. So I turn to lyrics.

What a nasty protuberance

What a hopeless bit of detritus

What a sad, funny, fucked-up thing

To keep in my head, behind the eyes

not a surprise

but a shock to take the dripping thought 

from under the oblangata

where it hid then it emerged

glistening, squalid, slouching towards

a semi-divine destination

Just a thought on a waystation

invisible, seemingly invincible, inflexible

I thought then I didn’t admit it

I thought then I wallowed in it

I saw it plop fully formed

tasted poison on the front of my back teeth

then slithered, silently to the place

where it would be in place verboten

Damn! so broken

So not in touch with much. So in the lizard body.

Yet there are layers of something elastic

walls built between my heart and

my mouth and my eyes

needful in this absence of humanity

Your being is slippery

You’re causing the unsayable to make the unthinkable but

I’m possibly enough to keep all the best things in place in your face

To prepare for wholesome in the afternoon, y’understand

Yet to lift them higher in the midst of big pain will require many hands

So many hands

(writing prompt shared by Tokyo Writers’ Salon https://www.meetup.com/writers-648/ “something hanging off the tip of my tongue”)