Aphasia Should be a Kind of Flower

I'm too tired to be funny and I want to write poetry but I have to do something about my gray hair.

Sure, I'm more self-actualized than the average bear, but I seem to be losing words at an alarming rate. Even simple words, like, oh...what's that thing that means...um...see what I mean? Can't think of any.

I'm suffering from an embarrasing mental incontinence that has reduced my participation in social discourse to well-timed grunting and head-nodding. Soon, though, you'll be talking, and I'll be staring. Just staring. Because by the time your words reach my brain, they've become a foreign language. Your words will be milling around my head like strangers at a party, looking for someone they know. But they won't find anyone. So they'll get in line for another drink, avoiding my spare vocabulary which has been in the drink line for some time.

Now did any of that make sense? I can't make heads or tails of it. It's just a lot of nonsense.

Bleak. There's a word I usually have handy. Bleak. But what am I going to do with it? Can I bake it in a casserole? Can I put it through my one pierecd ear? All my good words are gone. Used up. All I have left are prepositions, floating in space without subjects or objects or descriptions, and lots of windblown articles. Just uninhabited places, linquistic ghost towns.

My brain is a dusty, arid place. Turn around and go back while you still can.

Cindy