Deep Breathing Exercises

Awake at 3AM.
Hard to breathe.
My throat sounds like a vacuum cleaner
sucking up lost pennies.
Allergic reaction? Panic attack?
This happens every so often,
usually there's mold involved.
A corner of the bedspread undone--
a catapult of rug dust and irons.

Read my Dick Tracy Secret Files book,
(Max Allen Collins' edited
circa 1990
circa Warren Beatty movie
circa last public awareness)...
but still can't get back to sleep.
All the doubts and foibles nibbling my soul--

The endless film.
Living back home.
No girlfriend.
Lack of friends.
Balding and fat.
Poorer than I've ever been.

How will this all end?
For you-- this blog will just cease.
Another month or year from now
& all this emotional mincemeat will ebb
into cyberspace.
Lost amid the teen confessionals
& the wanna-be daydreams.
The middle-aged insomniacs
& the spooned Gen Y.
Just words & text.
Who reads this stuff?
Why do I write it?

I want to know how it ends.
Because despite all this...I still believe.
I will be self-made.
I will pull myself up by my bootstraps.
I will do want I want to do...
despite my surroundings
despite my upbringing.

Exhale.