The Daily (W)Rite September, 2o15 WK o4

A sadness rushes over me
. . . wraps itself around what's left of my human heart. It fills my head too
. . . a weight inside my head . . . a bag of sand with a tiny hole in it
. . . If I could cry, I'd turn myself into a river . . . washing itself clean . . . the Pacific Ocean will make a grand, wet grave.

So what's got me all bummed out, freak out, out of my mind with grief? Why it's the last week in in the month of September. "What?!" That's what I think I heard you say
 . . . "What the hell?!" Hey, don't be harshin' me. I always get a little . . . down . . . when the month ends. We will never see the month of September, 2o15 ever again. It is now nothing more than memory now, a burnt out match, the end of a favorite book. The Book of September! We should write poetry for it, about it. September should not go to its grave without a rowdy, loud goodbye from us who lived through her best moments without once thanking her for the cooler days she brought to us. The spectacular sunsets she painted for us, just for us to enjoy each and every evening.  The quiet rains that lullabied us too sleep at night . . . September brought them, bought them from Mother Nature (who never gives anything away for free.) and tossed them gently on the windowsill to dance for us . . . just for us.

Wednesday, September 23, 2o15
The First day of fall has fallen like a hot brick. A sweaty walk to David's house. Couldn't wear short sleeves. The sun would burn my right arm off, so I wore my Bugle Boy, long sleeve shirt that fits me like a small dress . . . Yes, I notice the eyes of a passerby trying to figure me out. I don't say anything, I don't say, "Asshole? It's just a long shirt." I think it very loud inside my head, but I don't say it.  I really didn't mind the heat on the walk to David's because it was only 87 degrees or so, but when we got into the car and the air conditioner hit me full in the face my whole body shouted "Hey, it was fucking hot our there!"

Inside the lab ("The vampire's lair" where David got blood taken for some test he didn't know he needed.) was like a walk-in refrigerator, you know, like where they store the dead bodies in a morgue. I couldn't tell if the chill doing sprints up and down my spine was from the cold or from the creepy feeling I get every time I enter a hospital. This particular one, the building where they keep the labs, the blood doctors' offices, makes me keep looking over my shoulder for Doctor Frankenstein walking down the . . .  hallways dark, the waiting rooms very quiet . . . too quiet like tombs (or my ex-girlfriend who thought it was extremely rude to the neighbors to make any kind of noise while we indulged in sex). A beefy nurse sticks her head into the waiting room, "David Slemmons?" David gets up and goes with the nurse leaving me to sit in the now empty waiting room (or better yet lets call it a de-waking room. I always seem to lose consciousness when ever I'm left alone in sterile environments.) I wondered if I'll ever see him again.

Thursday, September 24, 2o15
There's a glob of poetry sticking to the bottom of my shoeless brain:

Paraduckx

 

. . . and in the end . . . the ducks . . .  the fucking ducks.

Not Trump, not Isis or the warlords, the peace seekers,
or the black puss oozing through the festered wounds
we carved into sides of momma Earth, and not the midnight
prom queens sniffling  brandy through broken noses,
soothing to the bruised eyes all that alcohol.

 

And yes, no surprise, not even a strangled gaggle

from all the others dying from self-inflicted miseries,
all the children buried in the backyards of the most
respectable, suburban neighborhoods . . . it was the ducks.
it was always the fucking ducks.

Mourn us, scorn us. We are stoned and drugged out,

beaten and raised up on wooden crosses,
rough unfinished wood digging into the back
of a fleshy bit of thigh. Why all the fuss, you may ask.
And we realized
in our last moments on this, this . . . this  plan of existence . . .
It was always the goddamn ducks.

I did mention . . .  it's a glob of poetry? A poem starts somewhere and goes somewhere . . . and always between those two points . . . it gets lost. Need to send the grammar hounds to sniff it out . . . the Beckett police to hold it hostage until I can fire up an imaginary literary lawyer and spring it out of its creative incarceration.  Ha-ha-ha-HA!

The Pope visited America this week and my life has suddenly changed. I'm not sure what he did to me . . . I'm not even Catholic, but I feel rejuvenated . . . my spirit recharged . . . the tires on my worn-out '48 Soul filled to the 
appropriate metaphysical pressure . . . I can ride the heavenly highway for at least a night and forty days. No pit stops for chips and soda at a convenient store on the outskirts of Hell County. Straight shot to the promised lands. God in my life at this particular time . . .in this exact metaphorical location is a good, very good thing for me. I love these moments when I sing with the angels.

Friday, September 25, 2o15

Yeah, Trump flew into Oklahoma around five this afternoon! Woo-hoo! And dog brains! Do them Okies love it. Yeah, Trump is the MAN with the white supremacy plan! Build that wall, Trump! Build it high, so high you can touch Jesus! You know what really scares me? Not Trump. Trump is a wimp. Who scares me blind-less are the "good ol' folk" who think he's great! Should of heard them tonight. "Trump's gonna save us from Obama, and all them illegals just waltzing across our borders, bringin' in them drugs, murderin' our young people! And Iran?! Trump gonna show 'em what the fuck for!" Rural America be damn crazy!

Saturday, September 26, 2o15

Saturday night. Do you remember Saturday night? Straight home after work, cook a quick meal, something out of a can, then into the shower, scrub away the nine to five (if you're lucky enough to have those banker hours), close shave through a fogged up mirror. . . . done and done. Then picking the right clothes for "the ladies." Something snappy but still barroom worthy, levis and a pure, virgin white t-shirt. Shoes polished the night before.  Yeah, that's right. Shoes, black shoes polished to a spit shine gleam. Women adore that. And hair? Man, the hair perfect . . . long, wavy hair combed and brushed . . . a dab a Vaseline to give it that youthful glimmer . . . just like your shoes! And then when all is in order, you check the wallet to make sure you got enough bread, you're out the door, out into the darkness . . . looking for that Saturday to end all Saturday nights you ever lived.

Monday, September 28, 2o15

What a day it has been . . . or should I say "days" because it started at 7:30am . . . Yesterday! Yeah, that's right, my friends, I haven't slept in 34 hours. My sister had a doctor's appointment (heart stuff) at 7:00am in OKC. So we had to leave at 6am, and since I usually don't got to bed BEFORE 4am I decided, "Hell with it I won't sleep at all!" Listen, it's a crazy surreal world at six in the morning. Everybody appears to be sleepwalking . . . at an extremely high rate of speed! Sis was worried about traffic going into the city . . . hell, we lucked out. There was lots of traffic going in the opposite direction . . .

Tuesday, September 29, 2o15
What the hell just happened? Oh, yeah, I finally got to sleep. Stopped in midsentence and went off to bed! Hee! Anyway, it has been wonderfully bizarre the last forty-eight hours. When we got to OKC, we stopped for breakfast at this old restaurant right across the street from the hospital. And I realized that I had forgotten my glasses. So, sis had to read the menu to me. After that we drove down towards the hospital and made a right hand turn and . . . BAM! There it was!

 What was left over from the Super Moon from the night before. Just lovely. The parking valet at the hospital parked the car, sis ran off to her appointment . . . and I found a wonderful high-ground spot in the parking area to get off as many shots of that leftover moon as I could!

Wednesday, September 30, 2o15
The end of the month. The last day in September. Remember, at the start of this week, I talked about being bummed out by the end of September? All endings make me somewhat sad because I never seem to be able to accomplish anything to make the month feel . . . .special. BUT tomorrow it will the 1st day of October and that means that that HALLOWEEN will soon be here! Yes! My favorite day of any month October 31st! HALLLOWEEN! Goblins, and witches and ghosts!

Love me some ghosts! And scary nights, and the leaves turning colors and dropping from the branches of the oaks and elms (the only home they've ever known) to drift slowly to the ground. To their end of life. My sister always loved Christmas. The presents, the snow on the ground, the people happy . . . yes, I'll say it, cheery! But me? Horror films, boogiemen and candy, tons of candy, and  . . . well, you get the point, don't you? HALLOWEEN! What a wonderful time of the year!

The Daily (W)Rite September 2o15 WK o3

1am

Watching the Verdict (1982) as I type a few words down to start this 3rd week of September. I remember seeing The Verdict back when it first came out, and I didn't think much of it. But looking at it 2o15, I think I was a little harsh on it. Damn good movie.

I don't have much to say tonight . . . this morning, I mean. Just felt like  . . . putting a few words down . . . Hell, I'm rambling, repeating myself. Got a dentist appointment tomorrow. Loosened a tooth by accidently biting down on an apple seed. Haven't been to a dentist since I lost the "good job" and the insurance that went along with it. But I got some money saved and I want to do whatever I can to keep my teeth. I'd like to keep them in my head for when I die. I know, weird, huh? Went to this "bone" museum a few months back and the guy who runs the place said they actually BUY skulls from people . . . well, of course, they don't take possession until after you die . . . but the price that they pay for a skull is based on how many teeth are in the head. The more teeth, the more money he'll shell out. Now, I'm not planning to sell my skull to anybody . . . I just like to know that when I die my skull would fetch a decent price . . . I don't know . . . I find it somehow . . . spiritually comforting. Plus, I like to eat apples and burgers with bacon and lots of onions! Hard to eat things like that without real teeth!

Wednesday, September 16, 2o15
My lungs were happy when I finally stopped the damn peddling and slid off the bike. It was a good ride, relatively easy and my lungs needed to get out onto the street and stretch their metaphorical legs! The rest of my body sort of laughed at the lungs. They're such complainers. But when I opened the door and stepped into the freezer like environment of the dentist's office, my body began to sweat as it realized: Damn, it's hot outside this building!

They pulled one tooth and set me up another appointment to extracted another . . .and then? A partial plate, new one so I can eat. I was happy to find out my dentist (who looks like she's ten years old) thought my teeth, overall, where in pretty good shape. I do confess that I was a bit squeamish about getting a tooth pulled. I hate pain (my lungs are secretly chuckling at me as I write this). But it was like nothing! "Wow!" my teenage dentist said, "that was easy!" And it was! Hell the shots to numb my mouth hurt more, took longer than the extraction.

"Can I see it?" "Sure," my Game of Thrones loving, preteen dentist said as she pulled the tray over to me. And there it was my poor dead tooth. He looked good, like himself he looked. He had been with me a long time . . . how many cheeseburgers piled high with onions had we shared? How many long, deep, wet  French kisses had we savored together? How many . . . it was like a funeral, a funeral for a living part of me that now laid motionless upon a paper towel on a stainless steel tray. "Can I keep it?" "Of course," the dentist said quietly, "but you know it will get brittle after awhile and will slowly disintegrate." "What if I put it in alcohol?" "Well, that won't help." I must have looked very sad and disappointed because she and her assistant (who looked even younger) exited the room leaving me and my old friend alone to say our final goodbyes.

1o:23pm

I've had three hours worth of GOP debate, and one thing is perfectly clear to me . . .  I'm scared shitless of CONservatives . . . BOY! Even scarier? From a few of them, I liked what I was hearing! Rubio took off the school-boy pants and said some things that made sense, AND said them with conviction and authority. Fiorina took the good ol' boys to task . . . Trump, who's your mamma now? Donny Boy is still strutting around like he won . . . but he got his toupee yanked tonight!

Okay, now I'm ready for the Liberals to get out there on the stage and tell us what they are gonna do for AMERICA! I do love the political season!



Thursday, September 17, 2o15

Pain killers. For the tooth that left home. Mellowed out. Mind. Body. I'm hoping I can recreate this feeling without PKs. A spiritual high. I miss that feeling I once had . . . no pain . . . no thought or memory that could unravel my being. When I was younger, off drugs, working out . . . life just felt . . .clean. An adventurous soul. The wonder of it all. I miss that. The wonder of it all. I miss that.
I don't miss youth. Just the spirit of youth.

Me and David talk to a lot of shop girls, girls working in the restaurants, clothing stores in the mall, at the dentist's office.  Shop girls like talking to us even though we rarely buy anything. But they seem to think we're funny, pleasant, nice old men. Safe we are. Not sure I like the idea of being so old that I'm "safe." But then again, it's nice to just be able to talk to someone and to know there isn't any suspicion . . . "What is that old guy up to?" Matter of facts I like being an old guy. I just don't want to be old in my heart, in my mind. Eternal kid. that's a nice thing to strive for. Eternal kid.

Friday, September 18, 2o15
Okay, I need to STOP watching the news! Okay, at least, I need to STOP watching so MUCH of MSNBC AND Trump coverage. I'm driving myself crazy over this stuff. The things this guy says about women, men, our President, our veterans? This guy goes on about how he can do everything better than anybody, "Hey! I gonna run the military so good it will make your head swim." "I love women, I'm gonna take care of women." And today he had this urgent message for:
“The Christians are being treated horribly because we have nobody to represent the Christians. Believe me, if I run and I win, I will be the greatest representative of the Christians they’ve had in a long time.”

Okay, I do get mad at this nonsense, how Trump is going to take care of us all because we don't know how to take care of ourselves and the president we have now (Obama) is "Stupid."But my anger comes directly from: how Trump's attitude scares the hell out of me. The POTUS does not take care of us. Tyrants, dictators take care of their people. American citizens have an obligation to take care of each other.  But not under Emperor Trump's rule. No, we don't have to worry our pretty little noggins about anything, 'cuase Trump's gonna build a wall around America, round-up and ship off to Mexico every illegal alien, make the biggest, bad ass military-"No one will mess with us, they'll be scared to"- and get all the jobs back from China, from Russia . . .! And he's gonna ". . . be the greatest representative of the Christians they’ve had in a long time.” Total honest? I already got somebody taking care of my religious beliefs: Jesus Christ. Thanks for the thought, Trump, but I believe . . . no, I know that God's got my back covered. Or do you think you can do a better job than God?!

Sunday, September 2o, 2o15
Concerned. I'm concerned and unnerved. Last week I felt very energetic. Body was acting like a 50 year old! Writing, going out with my friend David. Reading! Yes, I got back to the joy of reading! I  don't know. I felt . . .  alive! Hell, I hate using the world "alive" to express feelings of physical and mental well being because you're always alive even when you're sick. And that is what I'm feeling right now and for the last few days . . . sick. All of a sudden I'm so tired. I feel like someone just let the energy out of me . . . I swear, I can hear that hissing sound a tire makes when you press the stem of the inner tube valve and all the air comes rushing out. Yeah, I feel like God or whoever is pressing hard on my energy stem . . . I can feel my life (there's that damn word again) rushing out of me . . . no, not rushing but slowly draining out of me. So, I wait. I sit on the couch or lie on the couch and hope that someone gets his damn finger off my damn stem before there's nothing left of be but deflated skin and bones.

It's scary this getting old thing. Not "getting" old but not being able to bounce back from illness like you used to when you were just a little younger. And the aches and pains that stay with you all the time or, at least, go away for a little while and then come back with a vengeance, more powerful and debilitating than they were before they left. Yes, I'm getting older and more venerable. I'll have to wait to see if this lethargy is a passing fad or if like RAP music . . . it's here to stay. Don't get me wrong. I like rap music . . . hate getting old.

Monday, September 21, 2o15
Dentist tomorrow. Pulling out another tooth. Hope it's the last one. The first time, a piece of yogurt pie. She didn't really need to yank, it sort just fell out. "Next one is really stuck in your jaw," she sad in a melodic whisper, "So, it may take a good tug or two." I remember sighing real big when she said that. So, that means going back on the yogurt diet for at least three days . . . canned chili if my mouth can take it. Not a bad way to live. Might try some sushi too. Sushi's soft.

A stiff breeze from the air-conditioner attacking the back of my neck. The hairs on my neck waving to some unseen shadow that swims by behind me. Sunset saying, "So long!" as it moves to another part of the Earth. No messages from the moon these last three night. No phone calls. I hope she's not still mad at me. She discovered that I was having an intimate relationship with a star. I think her name was Vega, but in all honesty, it could have been a planet . . . Venus . . . maybe. I am a horrible boyfriend and an even worse adulterer.

It is the last day of the third week in September and I probably won't write much more. However, so much has happened these passed weeks that I didn't get down because of time and because . . . I didn't feel up to writing much. So, tune in next time. Brand new stories to be told in the final days of September, 2o15.

 

September The Daily (W)rite 2o15 WK o2

Refugees ran out of their own countries. Other places, safer places don't want anything to do with them. Beaten by the cops of the countries they're running towards. I guess it's better than staying in the world you were born into where they kill you. Beaten or murdered. A fucked up choice. How can I write about my pitiful, little life, my "problems" which really aren't problems at all compared to what's going on in other parts of my country, in other parts of the world?

I've gotten use to the idea of talking to people when David and I go out. Spent a good bit of time talking to a little kid at the dentist office as I waited for David to finish his appointment. Actually, I was a bit shook up when this little girl came up to me asking me why I was at the dentist office. Did I have a hurt tooth? No, just waiting on a friend. "Do you have an appointment?" I asked her.  She said, with a great deal of pride, that she did. She was having a hard time biting down on food! I was laughing inside cause this six year old was talking to me like she was thirty. AND then the model train above our heads moved through the reception area and she became mesmerized. "You know," she said in a very wishful way, "I'd like to ride in that train. But I'm too big. If I was small enough, I would ride in it. But then how would I get off? I'd be too TINY." Oh, kid. Samuel Beckett couldn't have explained life's misery any better.

At dinner with David and his kids the other night we got into one of our arguments about . . . nothing. Damn," David's son-in-law said, "You guys are like an old married couple!" And we all broke out laughing. It was true. I had an aunt and uncle that used to do the same thing, always bickering with each other over . . . nothing.

Damn it I want to write more! I want to scream politics. Our leaders? Our pretend leaders? Trump. What a dick. Doesn't anybody other than me see what a waste this guy is? An over ripe avocado has more charisma. Doesn't anyone but me see it?
I want to write more. Kim Davis, Ted Cruz, Huckabee! I want to tell them, tell them all! But I can't, I won't. They have worn my spirit down to sand. I can barely shake my head with disgust. Maybe tomorrow I will have more to say about . . . nothing. Yeah, tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll have more to say.

Saturday, September 12, 2o15
It was Art walk yesterday. Reached Main St. about 7pm and already the street was filled with musicians, the delicious smells of food from the venders' trucks, and people moving slowly from gallery to gallery, stopping now and then to chat with a friend. And David has lots of friends! A lot of them he knew from so far back he had forgotten exactly who they were and how he knew them! But David is a sly old dude. He would smile and shake hands and sometimes (when he thought it would be welcomed) he'd hug the person, and all the time he's asking them questions like "How long has it been?" "What have you been doing all these years?" "Where you living now?" until (hopefully) the interrogated  lets slip his or her name. Like I said, David is a conniving little pacifist!

I don't talk much to people. Too busy taking their pictures! Dogs, cats, human beings mostly. Old, young (mostly not kids, though), I can't get enough of it really. I love shooting pics and then going home an editing them. I love faces, bodies! And I've gotten into cartooning some of the pictures I take. By hand? No, by internet! I got a couple of really good editing sites. One of them has a cartoon app. I'm just learning to use it! To create the whole cartoon I use three different sites: Ribbet (mostly for lettering) BeFunky (great cartoonizer app.) and the holy of holies  . . . PHOTOSHOP! Yeah, I finally got it back and I'm in editing heaven.

Sunday, September 13, 2o15

What I Think About Before I Go to Sleep



I think I'll go off to bed—off to bed—off—of  what? Off my feet, off my chair in front of the computer . . .? Turn off the light . . .? Why not turn off the moon, the stars (if there are actual stars in the dark and not just pinpricks in a sheet of black, unholy paper—what  lies beyond those pinpricks must give us pause.) . . .? The sun can be blotted out and may well be someday . . . or should be some day. . . . according to Mick. You can turn out the dog into the backyard to do his . . . unmentionables. But do not turn out your dog’s insides . . . it would cause him great discomfort . . . and a big mess on the carpet. You can turn out to be a good person, a decent enough citizen of the humane race . . . if there is such a being in existence. Existence, for instance, exists for a moment, for a brief moment, some say. But nonexistence is calculated to be a much longer moment.

 Nonexistence

n.: 1. a state of being without the knowledge that one exists.

Impossible, I'm told, by people who think about such things as that. But I have time these days . . . time to think upon, about, around and through things like that for I . . . am old. When I was younger—a  half hour or so ago—I had no desire to think, no need for thinking . . . too busy living my existence (Ah! That word again!). . . too busy to decide if I am carrying out my natural exist—Hmmm, carryout. You can order carryout . . . Chinese, pizza . . . You can carry out the garbage but you can't "carryout" the garbage because "carryout" is NOT a verb! And you don't want to look stupid by typing "carryout" when you mean "carry out." However, if you feel a bit naughty, you can say "carryout" when you mean "carry out" and no one will ever know the difference.

 

In closing:

“You can say what you mean and mean what you say—“ unless, of course, you’re a mime.

Monday, September 24, 2o15

End of another week. Evaluating my life today. Yeah, I know . . . AGAIN! Thought you did that yesterday? True enough. But it didn't stick to my personality. Besides, I need to either reevaluate my life or clean house. Yep, easier the former than the latter. "The latter and the former." I always like those terms ever since I heard them in English class back in high school.

I don't feel right about my life. No, not a bit. I'm not living the way my conscious mind wants me to live. My subconscious is such a bully. It doesn't like changes in my behavior or in my thinking. Too tied-up to the past, it is. And staying conscious all day long? Being totally involved in the moment as it happens and NOT regurgitating some old worn-out response that I've performed over and over my whole adult life? Naw! old Sub-C wants nothing to do with that!

There's this philosophy that I've been dwelling on for a long time now: It's not what the world does to you that counts; it's what you do to the world. I know, maybe a bit too Kumbayah for the times (I can feel Sub-C shaking our head in agreement.) but it feels right to me. I spend too much time being angry and depressed with "my life" all those things I've gone through . . . all the stuff people have put me through . . . all the stuff I've laid on them. Screw it. I want to change my life. I want to live a different way, balanced, in love with life again.

6:14am
Ending this post, this week, this life in this particular thought zone. Hmmm, is there a daylight savings time for the mind? I'd love to turn those hands back a bit . . . .might not do as much speed as I did as a young man. Lot of pain I caused a lot of people I wish I could erase . . . not a big enough Handi Wipe in this world to clean up the sticky mess I've of this life. But I'm planning the change, right No regrets . . . couldn't have gotten here if not for what came before.

See you next week, readers . . . friends.


 

  

September The Daily (W)Rite 2o15 WK o1

A balloon. Adrift. Not knowing its direction it just floats along on any little breeze that happens by. And those gusty, autumn winds? Hell, they also have no sense of direction, they just blow, and anything in their way is forced to come along. People too can be trouble when you're a balloon. They kick at you, send you bobbing up into the air, out across the busy street where any car can hit and send you flying into a Ford Bronco or SUV that's traveling in the opposite direction. And the fool who kicked that poor balloon into street? He stands with his friends safe on the curb and laughs. Yeah, laughing! Not one of them runs out to save that poor ball of condensed air . . . I mean, would you? Risk your life for a balloon? Pretty sure I wouldn't.

Wednesday, September o2, 2o15 2:28am

3:21pm

Now is the winter of our discontent-Richard the Third



It starts off slow. Petty annoyances, like that punk-ass assistant manager at the Moore Walmart. He gets all grumpy at me for going behind the "sacred" cigarette counter. "That's a flagrant customer violation," he mutters to me as his shaky hand shows me the little gate at the end of the counter. "Do I go through there?" I know the answer. I just want to hear him say it. He shakes his head instead of saying "yes," shakes it at the same quivering rate of speed as his nervous hand that pulls the tiny gate open.  And last night all my assholes friends on Facebook posting stupid ass memes: "I Believe Police Lives Matter," "7 Rules of Life." I made my own meme to fight back against the idiocy of that last one (see above). And then today I go to get my bike tuned up and the bike shop dude gets all in my face with, "Man, it's the beginning of the school year (at OU)! I can't work on your bike for TWO WEEKS!" AND my good friend, my only friend these days, David: "No, you said you wanted to go to the Yogurt store. Me? NO, I didn't say anything about Zoe's Kitchen." And Later at Hasting's Books, "Are you going to read that book you just bought? I bought you some books to read and you haven't read any of THEM . . .! " AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!! A Tsunami of rage washes over my whole body. I feel the fists inside my head tightening up! "Who are all these fucking fuckers fucking with my fucking life?!"

Yeah, it happens to me all the time. My own personal Winter of FUCKING Discontent! Well, not all the time. Maybe every four months or so. And of course it's all in my head and has nothing to do with what other people say or do. It's all on me. Manic depression. What to do? Lock the doors and wait. Cut off as much as I can all contact with the outside world because I know that this too will pass, in a day or so, a week or more. Suffer through it without making others suffer through it too. I should probably be on some kind of medication. But no. Not me. I can get through this on my own. Coffee and nicotine gum. That's enough drugs for me!


 1o:31pm

Leveling off a bit. Sleep crawls up onto the eyeballs forces them to close . . . ten minutes . . . open, stare at the TV . . . close . . . twenty minutes . . . open. Soon the heavens begin to clear, the rain, the thunder fading . . . no, no sun. It's dark. It must be night. or maybe I went blind sometime during the last forced fed nap. I can't see the world. But that doesn't stop me from remembering in thick butcher knife slices everything that ever happened to me. Good, bad, all mixed up, wadded up in each other. I can't tell a dream from a nightmare.

Thursday, September o3, 2015

The weather is still summery, ninety degrees and above when the sun is up and dropping to about eighty when it goes down, but it still feels like autumn is coming. I don't know what it is exactly. I do know that September is a transitional month when it comes to time of year, neither summer or fall. I guess September is a special month, a renegade, a rebel being itself, like no other month. The raging weather inside my head is today very much like September. It's not totally over, but it's not as angry or volatile as it was in dear ol' August.

Coffee this morning, or actually afternoon, with David at Second Wind Coffee House. We talked about all the hullabaloo going on about the county clerk in Kentucky who refused to give gay couples marriage licenses. I sort of admired her tenacity going against the court order and all. But David wasn't having any of it.   "She's breaking the law!" Yeah, okay, she is. But I can't help but think-even though I don't at all agree with her point of view-that she's doing what an American citizen is suppose to do . . . stand up for what you believe in. Stand up and be counted even if it means you go to jail, lose your job and have a hell of a lot of people bad mouth you on Facebook.

1o:30pm
Showered, shaved the way I've been told to execute proper hygiene. Do I feel closer to God? In some subconscious, clean way I suppose I do. Getting close to God for a moment isn't too difficult: Pray, ask forgiveness and really mean it. it's the long term friendly relationship with Him that's troublesome. Maintaining a proper "holy" state is often too much for a sinner like me. I hope God gives points for trying. Not sure he does, though.

Friday, September o4, 2o215
Nux: [In the midst of a massive, violent sandstorm, after witnessing his fellow WarBoys sucked off the War Rig into a vortex] Oh, what a day... what a lovely day!

In Norman-town that's exactly what we got . . . one hell of a beautiful day! Big smile mushrooming onto my face while I watched the herd of gigantic clouds grazing on one of the bluest skies I have ever seen. Walking turned into skipping, yeah, like an eight year old kid, nodding hello to passerby, sometimes a bright hello would float out of my mouth . . . yeah, a really strange day too when I'm this . . . gleeful! But that's how we manic folk do act on the emotional up swing. But I ain't counting nature out. She be gifting  me with a very special loveliness today.   And I am appreciating it.

1o:30am
A lot of scrounging for drugs this afternoon. No, not like that! Medications prescribed by a doctor. You know, the older you get the more drugs you need to just keep the motor running. A pill everyday to keep my cholesterol low, a "senior" vitamin, A memory pill! Yeah. A pill to help me remember . . . I don't remember what. Inhaler for my COPD (yeah, you know me!) and a chewable fiber thing that also helps with my weight (well, it doesn't really ) and a chewable baby aspirin for the heart. A lot of shit to take just to stay alive for a few more years.

Saturday, September o5, 2o15 3:30am
There's this poem I discovered stored away on Facebook that I hadn't completed. Just in the shaping stages of it. But I thought I'd put it on here and see if that helps me "see" it, where I need to go with it.

Almost Cut My Hair

 

. . . my long hair bothers me . . .

a dirty red symbol of rebellion . . . of youth.
Worn-out now, thinned to grayish strings now,
slowly becoming winter, a winter it will
never recover from.

 

What’s left of it

spends far too much time this morning
tickling my nose, my ears and high diving
off my head into my coffee cup . . .

 

. . . I must be getting old, older.

The last thing to go?
That childish addiction for coolness . . .

 

These days I favor comfort over fashion,

sweat pants feel more at home
around my expanding waste than blue jeans.
Beards are out, a goatee remains
but merely as a cover-up
for the saggy skin below my chin.

 

No causes to march for anymore,

to fight and scream for . . . anymore.
Black Lives Matter! White Lives Matter!
It’s all just vacant noise ‘cause
matter doesn’t matter anymore.

 

The news  . . .  stories mouthed by canaries

melting one into another . . . short clips
of weeping widows and  angry fathers
and politicians banging their impotent fists
against the podium . . .
as long as the cameras continue to stare.

Everyone’s raging these days, everyone shouts

so loud that the world has gone deaf . . .
finger wagging in a stranger’s face
like a babysitter scolding an unruly dog . . .

 

Kent State

not even a bloody memory anymore.
The stains wiped clean . . .time . . .
a diligent, thorough  housekeeper.

 

Janis, Jimmy, David C,

faint echoes whimpering
from  iPods . . . CDs
or whatever  the hell
they call those damn things.

 

My past . . . vague glimpses of acid trips

and drunkenness and cigarettes
and girls with flowers in their eyes . . .

 

I’ll keep my hair long for as long

as it cares to stick around.
Maybe some years from now
I’ll notice it

 

. . . tickling my nose, my ears

and high diving off my head
into my coffee cup . . .

 

I’ll wonder then why
I never got it cut?

Did some work on this poem a bit. You can see it with art work at:
http://evenmorepoetrybyrobertrwoods.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2015-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2016-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=23

Sunday, o6, 2o15
Sunday. A day to breathe. That's what my dad told me, back when we, the family, lived in that big scary house my aunt and uncle owned. What dad meant by "Sunday. A day to breathe" was more like Sunday a day to lay on the couch (in his sleeveless undershirt, dress jeans and socks! My dad always wore big wooly socks even when it was 90 degrees out.) and drink beer and watch the stock races or the demolition derby or the figure 8 car races until he fell sleep. I liked the sounds my father made when he slept. It was funny to us kids. He's start off with a very quiet intake of breath (like a baby breathing) and then out of nowhere this huge roar would come out that woke him up with a start. And we kids would laugh because he'd look around trying to figure out where that roar came from. My dad was a good dad most days. I don't have a picture of my dad. I wonder why? I'll see if my sister does. I'd like to post one of him. But sense I don't, a may as well celebrate the thought of him this Sunday by taking a nice long breath and relaxing the rest of the day.

Monday, September o7, 2o15

Here it is the last day of the first week in September and I've written something on this blog every day! Some days I wrote a hell of a lot. Other days I barely got a paragraph out. And today has been rough. All this week I've felt physically . . . damn good! Got out and about during the day and writing at night on this blog and the poetry blog. Also created a few "pseudo" cartoons of myself and my friends. The memes look kind of cool. I did a few hand drawings last year. I really need to get back to it even though it's HAAAARD to hand draw.

We had Game Day this past Saturday, which if you don't live in a collage town you might not understand how frustrating and exciting it get around Norman-town on Game day. Tons of folks all dressed in the OU red and white, drinking lots of beer and . . . well, it's like a human damn broke and flooded the streets of Norman-town with people. Beautiful girls and guys, ugly folk, skinny and . . . not so skinny people . . . lots of noise from street venders, local DJs and bands! A really great time. And every Game Day I get out in this flood of humanity and take pics with my camera. My friends warn me about doing the paparazzi thing 'cause people don't like to have their pictures taken on the fly, but so far nobody has said anything. However, on examining the hundreds of pics I take on an average Game Day ( and yeah, I mean hundreds) I always find at least one person who is glaring at me! Checkout the big guy in the pic on the left! Man,  pretty sure he didn't enjoy being "PICed off" by a runty old man and his Cannon!

Like I said, pretty much all week I've been filled with energy! But tonight? Wow. Feeling pretty run down, I just flattened out after me and David got back from Walmart. My head thumping with a troll size headache just drained me. I wound up laying on the couch closing my eyes and hurting so bad that I couldn't even take a nap. It scares me a bit, this lethargic achy feeling. Oh, well, I'm better now.

So maybe I'll end the week here, my friends. I really appreciate you taking the time to read this mess. I hope you'll continue cause I think I might be getting better at it! Also, checkout my poetry at:

http://evenmorepoetrybyrobertrwoods.blogspot.com/

A new poem going up either tonight or tomorrow . . .but there is still a LOT of poetry already on it if you are interested in that sort of thing. {smiles}