Clandestine...

"I regret to inform you that I cannot recall the sound of your voice. There are such things that I can recall such as: your face, and your smell. The smell of a bellowing fireplace, and a cheap perfume that lingers throughout an empty house in suburbia. Your face; wonderful and forgiving. I apologize, for I cannot remember why I left, or where the house was; or your name. It pains me to realize that I’ve lost you, because I believe you are the woman I am to be with for my eternal life, but circumstances have taken hold and removed me from your life."

* * *

In a time of crisis, you usually grab hold of something and don’t let go. You grip the steering wheel of your car after an accident in a state of disbelief. When the victim of the accident lay on the ground forty feet from the broken windshield that he’d flown through; you grip tightly.
Relax. Breathe. Wake up. It’s a dream. It’s a very vividly realistic dream with a side of fright and horror. You have dreams like this all the time. You can’t sleep through them. You’ve grown accustomed to them through the eleven hours of sleep you’ve had in the past sixteen days. That means - think about it - that technically for five days, you didn’t sleep at all. One hundred and twenty hours - actually one hundred and four - that you’ve had the opportunity to sleep.

It’s Clandestine - the friend …the friend in your head - who’s keeping you awake. You can’t take it. She tells you to watch QVC and buy a sheepskin jacket, that in thirty-six days; eight hundred sixty-four hours, you won’t wear.

Clandestine is an inoperable brain tumor that you can’t get over. Besides that you’re going to die from it. This tumor, this cancerous brain tumor - is going to end your already short life.
You’re in a fog, maybe it’s the valium, maybe it’s the coke or the ecstasy. You can’t figure it, Clandestine explains it to you: “It’s the extent of which you’ve forgotten your place in life.”
You don’t know what she means, you don’t understand. This you tell her, this you say aloud. She says: “Energy. Eat leaves of grass and mud. You’ll be fine.” God forbid you get yourself together and block the mysterious voice of your brain tumor out of your head. God forbid, you actually eat grass or mud and in return; obtain energy. You need to see the Red Eyed Albino.

The Rhibino you call him, pronounced Rye-Bye-No, but it’s valium induced and originally the words of a doped up sixteen year old prostitute, who was buying smack off of the Albino. She told him; “You look like a Rhibino.”

You laughed, the Rhibino laughed, and the sixteen year old prostie laughed - got her smack; and over paid.


Just something I scribbled down on a slip of paper one day...and now typed up.