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 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-o4-18SUNday August o5, 2o18
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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