The Daily {W}rite February 2020 wk o1

The first day of February. I know, it's NOT important. Nothing is actually important. However, there isn't nothing. Nothing in this illusion we created for everybody can't exist. There's always . . . some thing. And we are back at the beginning of a thought. A thought is like a church. Take off your shoes before you enter.

Frog Boy

We think, therefore we are confused.

Thinking, consciousness the plague

of human existence. If we did not think,

our lives would be a . . . a . . .

There's an amusement park on

the Santa Monica Pier. Bright lights,

Ferris wheel the colors of rainbows . . .

Whack-A-Mole, teddy bears, the sideshow:

"Heya, Heya!" cries the Barker

from the sideshow tent, "See

the amazing frog boy pickled in a jar!

And there he is! Piss-yellow skin

and eyes a gangrenous green,

yes, there he is!”

There's your heaven, your Mecca . . .

free rides for the eternal soul . . . if

there is a soul. If not . . . the ocean . . .

reclaimed life beginning and never ending.

Worshipping the Holy Mackerel.

"Fan mail from some flounder?"

Asked Bullwinkle Moose.

Woodie o2-o1-2o

Sunday, February o2, 2o2o 

Yes, an angry man, I am . . . Thank you, Dr. Suess. There have been moments in my life, bloodied almost dead moments  . . . If I could've, I'd have murdered the whole world. But then like now, I haven't the strength to do such a thing. Unlike then, now I have no desire to harm the world as much as it has butchered me, left me on the side of the road . . . roadkill . . . nothing more than a doggy corpse drying in the desert sun. They murdered me a long time ago, those parents, step parents, lovers and friends. They never even thought of burying the body. So, here I am . . . still. 

7:15pm
I'm taking time off from the game to write to you, dear reader. Don't worry, it's half time. I won't miss anything. I am listening to the half time show and writing to you.

Look, I take full responsibly for the I of ME. I can't blame anyone for who I am. Why? Because I am the one who decides what I do, what I am. Yes, other people's action towards me may have had a hand in it. making me who I am . . . those people . . . father, mother, people I've known as I was growing up, people good and bad whom I've had interactions with . . . yes, that made me pretty much what I am . . . but I chose how they effect me . . . how I react to their actions towards me. That's the rub. "They" may well do the kindest or the nastiest  things to me  . . . but it's my decision how I respond to those actions of others. And those actions can't be transmitting to the actions of other people. I can't or shouldn't respond to an action that may (to me) resemble an action by a different person in my past. There's the problem with living. You can be what they tell you to be through their actions . . . or you can choose to be yourself, what you choose to be.    

Monday, February o3, 2o2o
this morning, 8:40 or so, blood tests. The RN that took my blood smiled on her way into the waiting room . . . always a good sign. "Well, your blood is in good shape," her smiles gets bigger as she says this . . . and then a change in tone with, "but lower than the doctor would like to see." Oh, well. A discussion with the doctor next with her saying the same thing the RN said but in an even happier mood than the RN because she's getting ready to go on vacation. Then . . . into the chemo room for more chemotherapy . . . and out until tomorrow.

It gets dark outside the apartment. Night begins its drop into our sunlit world around 5:00 pm. And the world is aware of the arrival . . . the cars that pass my apartment seem more sluggish, almost standing still as it gets darker. The local black cat runs to the closest porch . . . a favorite place for street cats to hide . . . under the porches of the houses on Trout Ave. Dogs? Dogs just howl mournfully the dying of the sun, getting louder and louder until the sun is no more. And then the dogs just shut up, disappear into the black until the morning sun arrives.

Tuesday, February o4, 2o2o
Had a better sleep last nigh than I've had in a while. "Experts" tell me that you need eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for sleep to do you any good. Okay, but I have an old man's bladder that doesn't care. It wakes me up every two  hours or so. Anyway, did wake up in good spirits even though my abs ache from the chemo shots and my left arm is aching from the protein shot the RN gave me. But other than that. Feeling damn good. Some one on Facebook wished Trump to die of cancer. As much as I despise what Trump and his minions continue to do to this country, I would never wish cancer on him or anyone. And if you have paid any attention to my entries on this blog . . . you know why. {smiles}

Wednesday, February o5, 2o2o

Snow Day! Yea! It was a little nasty out but not to cold and beautiful snow fall. Went to the hospital for chemotherapy early, around 10:00am, instead at 2:00pm because a lot of patients cancelled their appointments because of the snow. What'a bunch'a wimps. Some of the doctors also took a snow day and cancelled appointments. Again, wimps.

6:26 pm
I wrote this poem last night after Trump's State of the Union speech, which I couldn't watch for more than 2 minutes at a time. I fear for my country.

The Fate of the Union

The president sat on the edge
looking down at the swollen ground

where once the people laughed

and sang now they cowered and

grabbed themselves and cried

to the sky above "when will it end?"

But the Orange One just shook
his head his Orange One hair
dancing in the wind. He pretends
that the problem is with the people
down there in the hole he created.
And all his crow-like followers agree,
"This country belongs to you and me
and not to the people way down there."

But the sparrows know how it goes.
Get enough of them together and
they can end the reign of the cowardly 
crows. Kill the ignorance, the stupidity 
that got them in this mess . . . but unless

their featherbrained ways come together,
become bigger than the power that has
stomped them down, the crows will fly
in numbers so large they'll fill the sky
with the blackness of their wings. And then
no matter how hard we try, no matter how
loud we yell, the world will die without its sun.
Woodie o2-o5-2o

Friday, February o7, 2o2o

The first week of the 2nd month of this "new" year. Pretty soon we'll not be calling it  New Year . . . in maybe 4 to 6 months from now. My birthday is approximately 3 months away and  . . . I'm just happy to maybe be alive for it. Yes, sometimes I'm very bitter about life,  how my life has turned out . . . but now that an expiration date on my life is close to be set, I feel much more in love with this life that I may be parting company with . . . AaaaaahahahahaHA! No, I plan on living forever . . . but I did fool you . . . didn't I?

A Facebook friend asked me if I ever plan to publish my poetry. Probably not while I'm alive. And if I'm dead, I won't be able to publish . . . anything. Look, I have my monthly poetry project. Granted the project is probably not even noticed by people. And it's designed that way, I guess. That's all I'm telling you. {smiles}

10:10 pm
My friend apologized to me over IM for being "grumpy" at me. I didn't really say anything I just blew it off. But we both got each other's nerves. I should apologize for all the rotten things I've said to him, actually.

I'm so glad that this week of chemo shots are over. Yeah, I know, I'm getting a minor dose of it when you compare it to other cancer patients. Today, man, the shots really hurt me more than usual. Still, it's not all that bad. Hey! Some great news from the pharmacy. The people take your prescription order are starting to look at the price and if it's too high THEY look for coupons for the patient! I had a nausea pill that was costing around $50.00 a bottle and the pharmacist got it down to $15.00. And today they got me a lower price on an antibiotic. Good. Very good. So, that's all from me tonight. See you next week.