Tuesday, June 13, 2023

Afternoon at the Alzheimer’s Hotel By Curtis Blazemore

I say Hi Pop, and he forgets to forget who I am,

how he despises me, I mean all of me,

not merely a finite number of particular aspects

or characteristics or habits like

my liberalism or sarcasm or mesmerizing

hand movements he says I make when I talk,

but my being, my being alive simultaneous

with his manipulating everyone in his

sight. He refuses a bag of candy I bought him

with the same sneer I see in the dreams

where I’m still seven years old

and believe in wanting his attention like I believe

in Santa Claus, a jolly old fellow, who,

for other people, remains lovable despite the

elaborately cruel hoax. Lovable isn’t a risk

with my old man, who waves off a doting nurse

while asking for a glass of juice, since

They don’t serve beer in this crummy dump,

which by the way I better not be spending his

hard-earned retirement on. I drop

a piece of hard candy in my mouth, spearmint,

so the old fire in the back of my throat

might be dampened, just a little,

so I can resist yet again telling Dear Old Dad

his hated oldest is taking better care of him

then he did for any of his “ungrateful

kids.” Where are they by the way

he’d ask, if ever I did say such a thing out loud,

They’re safe in their homes, I’d say, 

figuring out how to forget you forgetting them.


Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He see sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.