Psychoactive meds are seductive to psychos connoisseurs of consciousness but their clouding effect can be incongruent with delicious story telling. Synapse, crackle, where's the pop? The failure to ward off the decline creates the self-fulfilling prophecy that the best words have already been written. You see, some non-gratuitous, grinding stuff came from the minds of some elderly raconteurs.

The Year of the Mawnback is 67% complete and here's where we are:
Cancer - GONE
both hands have the hootchie-gootchie - what's that all about?
fatigue, man - expected and dealing with it.
sleeping like it's important
wishing the appetite would become appe-loose
chews make for food thoughts, awaiting return of the munchies
damn, the yard's got that sweet look
cork still has not popped yet
dominant feeling = gratitude
a little throat-drippy
hands and heart may still need help

The above satisfies an imagined need to keep clarity in these words but here's the truth
I don't wanna set the world on fy-er I just want everyone to know it's OK, we're on target and it's all because of her - my girl whom I love more than ever and I'm so grateful that she's in my life. Vroom-vroom.

cradled in the splendor of her compassion . . . in the sequined carafe where harlequins masquerade like the last walk into the hidden cove of hijinx and Trigger's horseshit.