what is real anymore?

silence

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?

my 45's.

The Beatles, The BeeGees, 

Bette Midler,

Chicken Fat.

my mother exercised to that one in her thirties.

singing along 

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

of resonance.

but a feeling i trusted and followed

only to find nothing.

nothing was real.