My psychiatrist asked my why I went on my pilgrimage,

It wasn’t in my heritage,

I’m not religious,

And the way was perilous,

She asked me if it had helped me,

Kinda but not really,

She asked me what I learned from it,

I replied “ummm, not one bit!”


Do you people know what it looks like when a man dies?

What you think his fucking soul flies?

As he serenely and comfortably lies,

And he flutters his contented eyes?

Not at all — there’s blood and pain,

And vomit in his mouth,

and foul brutal smells of bile…

Dear MS,

You should have killed me when you had the chance. You had time, before we noticed the lesions enhance. You could have fled, or slowed down, or otherwise been smart. Now I’m going to tear you apart. I’m not a warrior — I’m a worrier, but like Khrushchev…

wake up,
check phone,
let out moan,

stand up,
take a piss,
water runs hiss,

dress up,
clothes on,
eye WORK! c’mon,

fess up,
to myself,
about my health,

I’m up,
I comb my hair,

lift up,
arm weights,
my coffee hydrates,

speed up,
brain starts to work,
muscles start to fire; jerk,

drink up,
a glass of water with my drugs,
I give my wife and kids some hugs,

heat up,
some oatmeal for breakfast delicious,
ooh and a banana how delightfully capricious,

ahhh I feel so much better, what am I going to do…

On this fourth of July I got to run out of medication that I need (and can’t get refilled). On this fourth of July my uncle informed me of atrocities his mother experienced as a native woman going to mandatory schools where her language was beaten from her. On this…

Pat Pragman

The way things are going has kind of changed lately. Time for new - albeit wildly different - adventures.

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