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!