Thursday, August 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite August 2018 wk o1


WHEN YOUR EYES engage those of another person,
great him or her with a smile and they will smile back.
this is one of the essential techniques of
the ART of PEACE. -Morihei Ueshiba

The doctor's office called early Wednesday morning: "Is Robert Woods in?" "This is he." "Can you give me your birthdate?"  "May 23rd . . ."  "That's enough. The biopsy on the growth . . ." "Yes . . .?" "was benign." I still had to go into the office today just to let the doctor look at the wound. I smiled at both of the receptionist, the two I had gotten a bit angry at the last time I was in over being double-billed. They smiled back. Life was back to a more study, gentle flow. But it didn't last for long. I got pissy about the new restaurant that David took me to because they didn't have hamburgers on the menu. I snapped a the waitress a bit. It's hard for me not to get angry with the world when it doesn't turn in the direction I tell it to.

SATurday, August o4, 2o18
I wake up too late. Groggily up and about (well, at least as close to the coffee pot as I can get) after 12pm. Totally honest, it's 5:30pm right now and I feel like I'm just fully awake. Something has to give. I either got to just give up on life and live out what human time I have left or . . . or get out of the house, do something, make something happen for me.

I did get some interesting news today. A poet/publisher friend is doing some kind of story about herself as a publisher, AND she's mentioning me as one of the poets she likes(?). Something like that. I'm going to be mentioned in the same article as renowned poet  Maya Angelou! Maybe this will help get me published. Something I've been putting off forever.

I didn't mention before that David bought me a copy of the movie The Crawling Eye (1958). And you know what? It's just as I remember it when I saw it at this little movie theatre in Victorville, CA. I was 10 years old at the time! That's rare, man. I mean, most of the horror movies that scared me as a kid look pretty stupid when you see them again as an adult. But not the Eye! Still creepy to me. So, I got on a Crawling Eye freak out for the last couple of days . . . and . . . I even wrote a poem about it . . . sort of.

The Crawling Eye (1958)

My eye crawled out of my dreams,
the rest of me followed begrudgingly.
In real life a gnat keeps tapping 
a Morse code message on my left nostril:
-.-- . .--. .--. . . -....- -.- ..  -.-- .- ....  
-- --- - .... . .-. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . .-. .-.-.-
Cold cup of coffee, a fresh piece 
of nicotine gum,
a small sigh from my opened mouth 
slowly transforms into a Christlike moan . . . 
Does heaven hear me?
Bob Dylan, Slim Pickens and I
and the faceless thing in the corner, he 
waits none too patiently 
for the rest of us to follow him 
out of the grey morning light.
But I'm too lazy to dress my own death,
the rouge, the make up that makes me “Look
just like himself” back when I sucked air.
I couldn’t bear the mourners in their mourning wear,
rivers of digital tears 
that they purchased online:
THEY LOOK ALMOST HUMANLIKE!
And then there’s the fiery furnace . . . 
no, not for me, not at this time. 
I'm too much a slave to this 
air-conditioned existence. 
Besides, I’d look awful in ash,
in a jar, sitting on a shelf, in a closet dark
next to the panties, the  wool socks
of some unknown relative who 
while I lived never called.
Woodie o8-o4-18

SUNday August o5, 2o18
Grabbing at me, the sun. My right shoulder doing its best to ignore the assault of late afternoon light bolting through the gaps between the plastic slats of the window blinds. The air-conditioner behind me, mounted in the second widow if the living room hums a cold metallic tune.  Soon, I'll finish this bit of blog, shut the computer down, make dinner for myself.

It's August. The newborn leaves on the neighbor's giant elm are just beginning their lives. Five months old most of them. They crowd each other; each of them battling to get enough sunlight. Greedy little bastards. But how much more self-serving would they be if they realized that in October they will feel the ending of their existence approaching. They won't know what it is. But they will feel it. That cold that just seems to get colder with every day.

MONday, August o6, 2o18
I'm wondering if I have enough nicotine gum to get through the day. I hope so. I planned to jump on the bus to Walmart this morning and pick up a pack along with some bread and such . . . but I got up too late. So, I got to cut back on the gum I got left until tomorrow. I need to give up this damn addiction to nicotine gum . . . but if I did, would I ever leave the house again?  I need good reasons to force myself out of the house and into the world . . . other reasons than just nicotine gum and food.









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