Between Stupors

Mostly my life is a haze that lasts
between stupors. Some days I
manage to rise just above the haze,
for a few moments anyway;
on those days, I can beat my father
in chess. Winning at chess and
some clarity about the truths of
my lot in life are the only fruits
lucidity bears me anymore.
A hello from someone I know
as I hobble along the sidewalk
feels like a sudden attack in a
dense fog. A phone call that
comes as I lie on my couch
thinking of nothing but unable
really to rest is a rude awakening.
Words of kindness even, if my
mind is focused elsewhere, are
completely incomprehensible and
like the jolt of electricity I
remember when I chewed on
the TV cable once as a boy.
I used to thrive on spreading
myself thin; I am no longer
easily spreadable. Or maybe I
spread myself just a little too far
and wide; there's just no way
for me to reassemble my bits and
pieces anymore. The fog is getting
denser. I don't see the game
board as clearly as I once did,
don't recognize any of the patterns.
I'm not even certain I speak your
language or if I'll be able to find
my way home. And would I
even recognize it if I found it?

(2007)