black eyeliner i can't throw out
a jewel hued dress.. balled up in a plastic tub
under t-shirts i took for souvenirs
from concerts i played. in some other lifetime.
was that real?
The Beatles, The BeeGees,
my mother exercised to that one in her thirties.
singing about her 'chicken fat'
i sucked my thumb from my fathers nubby chair.
quiet and pleased. as my mother lay on her back
with her legs in the air.. doing the bicycle.
was that really me?
what is real anymore?
when you love something so much that you vow
to never betray it.
a horse i groomed relentlessly.. sharing apples with him,
bite for bite. horse slobber mixed into my chapstick.
the happiest i have ever been.
that was real.
and what were we my dear?
with no memories to recall
with no moments to rely on for evidence
like smelling salts is the absolute lack
but a feeling i trusted and followed
only to find nothing.
nothing was real.