decorated the kneecap with thick, scarlet flowers which
quickly mutated into violent blooms of yellow puss.
And I thought to myself, “Fuck! That’s definitely
gonna leave a scar.”
torqueing my joints from ankle to wrist, delivering
a incapacitating knotted highway through my entire
body. Slowly and thoroughly I’m being transformed
into an aging flesh-pretzel.
a bush, a porch. Some flutter up onto the roof
seeking an open vent, a stove pipe, anything,
any tiny crack in the eaves, any passage that might
lead to the warm, dusty crawl space where
the angry winds can’t find them. I have friends
that are a lot like those House Sparrows.
Which if true means I’ll be celebrating
my three hundred sixty-third birthday.
to say . . . What the hell the hell does it matter?
through it? Fucking grammar.), until a subtle
roll of thunder opened my eyes.
I ran to the window, threw back the blinds . . .
the rain had already stormed passed leaving only
a saggy, soggy world for me to admire.
So fast things come and go these days. I barely
had time to close my bathrobe in respect
for Mother Nature’s moist gifts and the few
passersby who might not appreciate being exposed
to my almost sixty-nine year old naked body.
if I dream too loud.
I confess that often enough I get up
in the middle of the night wondering
if I should be frightened by the fact
that everybody seems to be dying
around my body or pleased that it’s not me.
Some die old, some younger, some
linger longer than they should, while others
rumble through this existence so fast
It’s hard to tell if they were ever here at all.
Not that sixty-nine as a birth-age
is less remarkable as any other age.
It’s more about the sexual connotation
associated with the number 69.
“Woodie, how old will you be in May?”
“I’ll be exactly sixty-nine years old.”
“Sixty-nine!” they’ll say with a
Beavis and Butt-head chortle,
“Heh-heh! He said sixty-nine!
Heh-heh, heh-heh, heh!”
Written by Woodie