The minivan pulled into the shop and they wheeled my ass out strapped to a hospital bed.  We headed inside and they slammed me from one bed to another bed and immediately strapped me down and put something over  my face that brought on beautiful sleep almost immediately. 

I  was on my way down mama, 

I was going to hit that old dirt and sink till I will never be found. 

I was on my way down mama, 

I'm on a journey to the center of my soul. 

We are digging for that black rich dirt, 

on the journey to the center of my soul. 

Pleasant memories, bring me pleasant memories. 

I remember waking up once and it seemed to me that there were melting monsters over me with large implements of destruction and they were pulling chunks of my flesh away gurgling and growling and the stench of blood made me pass out again and I went back to my beautiful happy place of dreams.  The last thing I heard was perfect English saying, "Come on get up there and fuck him in the ass". 

The second time I woke up I was still on my back and I was pretty much convinced that no one had violated me.  The room was pure white and smelled of clean and meticulous things.  I wasn't able to move at all and I felt like there was something missing from my mid section down.  I was frightened but also knew that the best place for me to be right then was back at my happy place so I fell back to sleep. 

The night lingers on.  I have dialysis tomorrow so I am trying to stay up later and that way I can sleep my way through the three hours of doing nothing but half laying in a reclining chair in a gigantic room full of people all doing the same thing.  If I listen to what they say it make me want to kill all of them so it's best for me to sleep.   

Sleep, damnit, beautiful sleep. 

A doctor came into the room and looked down at me and finally ask, "How ya feeling there young man?" 

What I wasn't feeling like was a young man. 

He growled, "The operation was a success.  You are now a mer-man.  We will being integrating you back to the ocean starting tomorrow. 

I desperately wanted to say something but it seemed that my mouth had been sewn shut and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't move a fraction of an inch and the missing feeling was now up to my chest. 

Without hesitation I heard the doctor speak again, "Well it went well.  Just get some rest.  You are still pretty out of it from the meds so ignore most of what is going on and just get some rest." 

Sleep, oh sleep is the enemy that is hiding.  Dreams when dreamt awake are the real nightmares.  

Sleep oh sleep... 

I me, me mine mother fucker.  Ha! 

Sometimes it all gets twisted man.  Sometimes the rotting brain takes back control and I am filled with the images of terror that are so delightful during these moments of clarity.  The clarity is filled with the shit and blood of the celebration of the dance through the dead bodies and the smell, oh the smell, the stench chocks me, just chocks me. 

This place will become a thing of the past. 

I will recover and heal and get back to my life. 

I watched an old farmer on the exercise machine.  He fought the aid getting on it and complained as she get everything ready but man oh man when he took off peddling he was off to the races.  He never looked back. 

It was obvious that he suffered from some dementia but when he was peddling that bike he knew where he was going and he wasn't going to stop until he got there. 

My eyes filled with tears  because I know that this old farmer had spent his entire life  making sure he got to where he needed to be.  He made sure his crops were planted and that they were also harvested, that his livestock were fed and well that that they were also butchered when they needed to be. 

It was a strange time at therapy.  I felt emotional and dizzy.  I felt a strange connection with my physical therapist.  It was foreign to me and I just felt confused. 

Toni Joe texted me and said she needed a poem about teachers.  This is what I came up with. 

My teacher 

You deliver to the children a reason to read. 

You gather together their imaginations and perform a concert or paint a portrait or write a novel. 

You laugh and cry with them. 

You reward and suggest other alternatives. 

You are a teacher. 

You ask only that we participate. 

You awaken our senses to the wonders that abound. 

You have good days with us and you have sick day too. 

You will never be honored as much as we should honor you. 

You are my teacher. 

The awakening. 

The expansion. 

The knowledge. 

The gift. 

You are my teacher. 

Ok so much for that. 

What could possibly be a more defeatist job than that of a nurse or an aid in a nursing home.  Your primary function is to focus all of your attention on the elderly, sick and broken and to bring them back to life where they will run away and never look back or they will die on you and will never be seen again. 

What is even more painful and insane about the job is that you may have to watch this person that you have become close to in some way slowly and methodically just fall completely apart until that final breath.   

They cut off a toe today and then the foot, now it's the leg, now the other leg.  He or she is dead. 

I honor them however.  They chose this as a direction to go in their lives. 

We finally were able to work out me getting another day out of here and at the market.  I had to negotiate physical therapy, more physical therapy which was fine with me. 

There is a terrible unfortunate circumstance that happens in these facilities because of our government, corporations and greed that create an almost impossible system where real healing can happen.  To keep the insurance companies happy and the drug companies and all the rest of the money grabbers giddy there are unbelievable and unrealistic conditions that have to be met by the patients so that they can afford what truly should be a part of our citizenship.  The fallacy of the program means that we either are thrown out on the street not able to get the proper treatment or we are held prisoner and have to give up a tremendous part of our lives.  Either choice is a hell of it's own. 

Nighttime in this place is a dudgeon of rooms with tightly closed doors and behind those doors are tears that will never be wiped away. Silent screams that will never be heard and final breaths that will never be felt. 

cool peace

hippy mike

love

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