Yes, my hands do shake. Yes, I worry about death. A Lot.
Though I will pride myself as the most open-eyed person I've ever known.
Even when I'm wide awake, and I always am,
I'm asked what's going on with me.
I have this daunting and cluttering behavioral type;
it's hesitant, confident, funny, serious, disgusted -
overworded. Underworded. Wet.
And lately, when I crack my back, I feel it in my throat.
Blood, perhaps, or mucus, liquifies further into a rushing river,
rises up to my lips, daring to make me sicker, but stops.
Right at my chin. And I am alive.
And my neurons spark and rattle,
They make my fingertips push up to my nostrils,
shoving the stream back into my mouth,
and though it's still flowing, though it is still red and lustful,
more willing than I am, to do quite anything at all),
it curls into a feline position of nobility,
and rests until it is hungry once more.
Do you do anything else? I am asked.
No, not really, I said. Told them I can't teach an old dog new tricks.
And they sat up straighter, told me about euthanization,
about the end, about how bright it was.
But the only death I've met is ego death, gifted by God.
I hope He will guide me to its revival, too;
because I don't know what's going on.
Even so, I still taste blood in my mouth.
Even so, I am more alive than you.
Written by M. Weiss
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