The Daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o4

Wednesday, March 23, 2o16
My eyes aren't quit ready to shut even though it is 4:30 in the morning. The air conditioner is keeping me awake, the bastard. It's bulldog growl keeps ponding at my eardrums. I'd turn it off, but then it

would be too warm in my small apartment. So, I just wait and write while I wait for my brain to click off . . . and then turn itself on again, switching to the dream channel for a few hours. I don't sleep much anymore. I'm told that old folk need less sleep than when they were young. I believe it's true. I've been reading up on time, how time has changed over the years. Interesting read. David doesn't think so, though. On the drive back from Walmart I told him all about how people once believed that nighttime was the time diseases like cholera and the black plague would travel from person to person if they were unlucky enough to be outside. the called the phenomena the Miasma theory. He laughs. Doesn't believe me. He sometimes makes me think he believes I'm a little stupid. Naw, he's probably just kidding.

Anyway, my eyes are starting to cross. That's their single to me that it's time to go to bed. I'm such a slave to my eyes. So, more tomorrow about this . . . this . . . this existence I have been forced into living by a person or persons unknown. Goodnight. P.S. I think Miasma would be a good name for a horror or fantasy character. What do you think? {smiles}

10:35 P.M.

Wow! Energy abundant! Rushing rivers of it drowning my hands and fingers, flooding pouring out of my fingers and flooding the key board with words, words, words. I did sleep most of the afternoon away because I didn't get to bed before 8 a.m. I woke about two hours after I went to bed . . . well, wasn't really awake . . . more like Zombie Consciousness! Anyway, cut a few more Zs and finally bounced out of bed around 2 p.m.

David and me kind of jousted on the Facebook today. Was sort of fun:
ME: So, I'm starting to see these
trailers for the live action movie of
Warcraft? Anybody psyched up for it?
David: I think it is the same as that other comic book one - "Batman vs Superman: Civil Warcraft" only Scarlet plays Lara's sister War - or is that Croft... They had to cut the Jimmy Olson/Robin scene. I heard it isn't as good as the others because Groot isn't in it and the CGI of the pegging scene isn't as good as Walking Deadpool. So I guess I have to take you to see it Friday because your bicycle isn't fixed. Warren or Regal? Is it supposed to get lots of Oskies?

ME: Warcraft is NOT Batman vs. Superman. Civil War is the soon to be released third movie in the Captain America series. You have learned nothing from me, Grasshopper. AND yes! Batman vs Superman, Friday at 11pm . . . but if you don't want to go . . . I can go by myself. {fake cry}
David: Wake-up at 9 then?
ME: Sounds good to me!

Thursday, march 24, 2o16
I've no friends as constant as the air around me. And it is created by artificial means, a wad of interconnected wires, red, white, blue . . . I wonder what that lone, purple No. 2 AWG  wire that goes so deep into the brain of my air-conditioner . . . I wonder what's it for? It must be hooked up to the memory. Yes, that's it. It connects the outside world to its memory. Hmm, interesting enough hypothesis can lead only to a much darker question:  Do machines think? They must. Of course they must. How else would my Mr. Coffee, coffeemaker know to begin brewing my coffee at exactly 6 a.m. each morning? My electric razor remembers the shape of my face, I'm sure of that. How else could I get a perfect shave each and every morning if  my razor did not have a consciousness? Because I'm pretty sure that I don't wake up until 11 am and my face is always clean shaven, so, therefore, someone or some thing must have performed the operation because I sure as hell didn't.

Unless, of course, I'm also a robot, a robot thing like my air-conditioner, like my Mr. Coffee, 12-Cup Coffeemaker . . .  or as the handbook calls it: Cafetera de 12 trazas. Perhaps, I'm less human than I am aware of. I, Robot! But no, that's been contemplated way too many times in way too many bad Sci-Fi movies. I'm not a robot, I just act like one. And while we are add it, about Sci-Fi, why is it robots want to be human so much? Why when a robot finds out that he is a robot and not a "human bean" he/she gets all sad and stuff? What the hell? Being human is an asshole job. Being a toaster, at the least, does something worthwhile . . . making toast!
But I'm ranting, like a Scarecrow wishing he had a heart . . . or is that the Tin Woodman? But does it matter? I am human, I have the faults all humans carry with them . . . granted, maybe more than most, my sins are many. But alive I am.

Friday, March 25, 2o16
Retreads. I stepped on sticker today and I felt it on my foot. My shoe's sole is thinner than an old man's skin. The heals are worn-out also. The shoestrings once white are now a chimney soot gray. "Toss them out," I tell myself, "you have three more pairs that are in far better walking shape." And it's true. Yet, we've traveled so many miles together, in the snow, the rain, that one day through a muddy bog down by the Duck Pond. What a mess that was. And how many sweaty summer trips did we make to the Regal to see some dumb-ass movie nobody with a car wanted to go see with me? Nicotine gum runs to Walmart, kicking at some crazy ass dog that chassed us. Maybe not always a fun time with these shoes. But when you share a life for as long as I have with this faded blue pair of Chucks, it's hard to let go, to say goodbye.

Saturday, March 26, 2o16

I sat down in front of the computer and wrote a movie review, a whole movie review without stopping except for a lunch break and  quite a few bathroom breaks . . . the coffee was already made so all I had to do was walk to the kitchen and pour me a cup. But other than those few necessary breaks, I wrote straight through 'til the end of paper. I don't do that often sit down and just write.

The other day a person from the university that I've known for a few years Facebooked me and ask a simple, straightforward question, "Do you believe human beings are basically good or basically evil?" My answer was, "Yes." The friend understood what I meant without asking more questions. It's probably best to go through life thinking people are basically good . . . however, always leave room for the possibility that you are wrong. {smile}

I busy myself. Poetry, my mind on politics, writing the blog, watching a favorite movie, I busy myself. I don't fight the end of light, the dark in night, I accept my single minded dreaming. Drift through the oil slick as if it were cleansing waters. I do not drink from it, that is a certainty. The stink is enough to warn my lips that that way is toward the infinite, the dreamless dream saved only for the security of the grave. I don't think on it. I don't stomp around inside it, splashing its mud on my shoes, in my eyes, I don't think on it. A numb buzzing around the inside of my balding head. A whispering hiss from the plastic, metal monster behind me. But I don't worry on it or about the cyclops perched on the corner table. He never blinks never takes that one red eye off of me. Most times I don't pay attention his scornful gaze. Now and then I do place a red scarf over his lidless orb. Sometimes my skin screams, it's bright stare burning me. But I do not mind it at all.

Sunday, March 27, 2o16
Watched Easter movies all day. King of Kings, Barabbas, The Silver Chalice. Thought a bit about Christ, about my religion and how pretty much I must be big disappointment to . . . I don't really try to be the good Christian. I keep promising Jesus that I'll do better, every night in prayer I asks for forgiveness of my sins, and as soon as I wake up in the morning I repeat the same sins that I promised Him I would NEVER do again. Hmm. Well, I keep trying with the hope that sooner or later I'll get it, get the whole holiness thing.

I can feel the sleep fairy rubbing the back of my neck, my shoulders, her breath on my eyes making the lids slowly close. So, it's off to sleep, I hope. Don't want another night like last night where I didn't get to sleep until 9 a.m. Wish me luck.

Monday, March 28, 2016
1,000 miles an hour. That's how fast and how far the Earth spins. Okay, from the equator but it still spins almost as fast in Norman, Oklahoma. Some times I can feel that spin. My head notices now and then that it's dizzy. I have to sit down until it passes. No, that's all an illusion. We really don't feel the earth move . . . I think. But sometimes, I'm pretty sure, Do you ever have those days or moments where you just keep bumping into things or you do weird, physical actions that  you've never done before like shutting the door to David's car and not realizing until you try to take your camera out of its pouch to take a few traveling picks that the lanyard you keep your keys on, that you usually wear around your neck, but today for some godless reason you put around the handle on your camera bag, that the whole lanyard didn't make it into the car and your KEYS are dangling outside the car as you drive at 70+ miles an hour to Oklahoma City?
Me: Fuck! My keys are outside the fucking car!
David: What?
Me: My fucking keys are swinging in the breeze, I closed the door without realizing that the strap I carry them on . . . oh, hell! Just read the description above, David!
David: You want me to stop?
Me: No. We'll be at the hospital soon, right?
David: Yeah.
Me: Naw, don't stop. If they're gone, they're already gone!

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Politics. The murderer of my peace of mind. No. Not really. Just my excuse for NOT allowing myself to be peaceful, to not fight, to relax and let the world churn in its own gravity. I want to explore without thought this existence. With out labeling it I want to smell and taste and touch and hear and imagine this consciousness adrift in a sea of consciousness. There are so many other entities wondering in this ocean of air. So many shapes, sizes, colors. Every now and then one of those ocean creatures sparks your interest. Its gravity drags your attention towards it. And you watch as it moves to the register, smiles at you hands the coffee you order. And you pay it and smile and it reacts with a smile that turns into a blazing galaxy of light.

But politics. I need to stop thinking about it. I need to allow the universe to unfold all by itself. I keep thinking that my gravity can change the momentum, the trajectory of the other things who are just like me. I think that my thoughts can somehow lasso their beliefs, change them, brand them with my symbols of right and wrong. But it never happens. I can't change existence.

11 p.m.
All day the weather stations has been warning us: a powerful thunder storm traveling through Oklahoma. And parts of OK have been hit. Rain, lightning, and a few tornados all around us. But not IN Norman-town, at least nothing bad . . . yet. Too far south, I'm guessing. JUST heard a rumble! No, a train passing by! Ha. I'm fearful of a stormy night. And yet, I long for the storms to come. An interesting dichotomy within the soul, to fear something an event and at the same time long for it. All of my existence has been filled with horror and delight to a point that it's difficult to tell sometimes which is which.

Thursday, March 31, 2o16

My eyelids whimper a bit, well,  as much as eyelids can whimper. The fingers on my left hand scratch gently at my forehead. Body warped into a question mark, the legs shaky. Each "last day of the month" is a small funeral for my physical being. It's like my body's aware that the end of the month signifies one more step towards that eternal darkness. Maybe my eyes don't recognize Big Daddy D marching slowly in front of them, but my nose can still (even in old age) sense him  smell him . . . just up the road, just around the bend he walks, and too soon my feet (and the rest of me) will catch up to him.

The Daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o3

My battery running low. Just enough energy to open my eyes. Just enough desire to move out of bed and stagger to the kitchen. Coffee on. All I need to do is press the "brew" button. Done. Bouncing off the hallway walls to the bathroom . . . done. Life in mud. Thick cold mud. This body shivers a bit, its bones would cry if they had voice enough to do so. It's ending. You feel it ending. The climax of this play came and went a long time ago. Nothing left but resolution.  Just a tying up of the loose ends. No extra bow, no encore before the audience disappears and the stagehand drags out the ghost light and shuts the doors. Darker than night the closing of a show.

Random thoughts:

Machina
The Robots had taken over.
One by one the humans gave in. Those who did as they were told were sold into slavery. Yes, even the Robot Kings needed someone to change their oil pans once a month, dust off their internal workings (easy enough to do, human hands being quite tiny). Besides, humans were cute, particularly the smaller ones, the ones they called "babies." And if any of the walking "water bags" got of line, easy enough to dispose of them. The robot authority had no qualms about offing any Flesher who defied the will of their metal superiors.

Death Light Saving Time

Hmm. The news just reported that when Daylight Saving Time kicks in on Sunday "old" people's chances of having a heart attack increases by 23%! Damn you, DST! Damn you to HELL!

Dog Freedom
We make mistakes. Hopefully we learn from them. Sometimes we keep repeating ourselves, the same response to an action. Others find fault in our limited ability to ever "get it right, damn you," but have even less respect for us when we do change. Ignore them. That flip-flop congregation: "Thou shalt not change. And even if you do, we will treat you like dog." I'm tired of being the dog. Scratching at a gang of flees who I can never, ever please. I break the leash you strapped on me. I run free, free through this wilted word. You will never catch me again.

Sleep Herder
A sheep herder's sun, its hooves pounding out dusty clouds of desert sand as it rounds up the strays that gather haphazardly along the dreaming river, red with sleep. My mind won't comply tonight (or is it already morning? What does that matter.) running free upon the muddy banks running wild through the brush, the grass where the sparrows roam and the crows stampede whenever they are startled. You cannot tame my mind, break my mind.

Restless

Oh, I hate the rowdy memories that always start rattling around inside my head right before I've decided to go to bed. Too much life cluttering my thoughts. It's a wonder that I can recall anything at all that didn't happen in the distant past. My bicycle pump, my wallet and sunglasses! I lose them all the time in the apartment because my elderly mind is too busy remembering that lovely day in 1984 when we got caught-up in a hellish Oklahoma spring rain two miles away from home. We didn't run, we didn't bother to cover our heads with our hands, we just strolled along laughing and dancing just like Gene Kelly in that movie you always loved. Funny. I can see all that with great detail as if it happened yesterday. . . and still I can't remember where I put my damn house key!

Wednesday, March 16, 2o16

Trapped in the house, in the apartment for three days. Afraid to look out the window, afraid that if I pull the blinds up, the world will have disappeared, vanished as so many friends have in the past when I didn't pay proper attention to them. Hell, Rapture could have happened and I'd never have known it. Afraid to raise the blinds and stare oblivion in its black, cold face. I don't know why. I lived in a void of my own making for the last three days! Why is this nonexistence that I created for myself less disturbing than the one I imagined just outside my door. My door. Too many doors in my life. Too many keys to carry, too many steps down the stairs to the white, freshly painted portal that leads out into . . . what? Time has caught up with me. Time forces me to think in ways that defy the natural order of things, of life. Time is a demon that sits on your shoulder from the day you are born. Time is a circling vulture waiting for its moment to strike.

Thursday, March 17, 2o16 4:00 a.m.

I've accepted this late hour in same way that I have accepted that of the matter. Yes, matter doesn't matter anymore or less than it did before I decided to not sleep. As young man I feared sleeping. Not so much did I fear the idea of going to sleep and never waking up. My youth could not conceive such a thing. Death, dying was something old people did when they grew to tired to wake anymore. No, that wasn't my reason for hating sleep. I was just afraid that I might miss something. A party. A chance to see, to experience something . . . grand and glorious. Life was such a wonder when I was a younger man. I know what your thinking. Be positive. Life is what you make it. There still wonders to be experienced. I'm sure you're right, you are always right. Maybe that's why I can't sleep. Sometimes I feel that punk kid inside me desiring to recreate itself, take charge burn the fucking candle . . . no the cigarette at both ends! Hell of a way to try and smoke. Smoking! I miss smoking. Yes, I've gotten use to the nicotine gum, I grown accustom to the lack of stink my fingers produced when I changed smoked my way through time. BUT I still miss it. I miss holding a cigarette between my fingers, letting the grand ghostlike smoke drift up into my nose . . . inhaling, exhaling . . . yes, I miss it. The whole ritual. The friendliness of tar and nicotine.

And I do miss love. Or at least, what I thought was love. Yes, a very bad bringing up from parents who never cared much for each other. That's probably not fair. They loved each other . . . once. Drinkers they were. Met in a bar somewhere in Long Beach, CA during WWII or just after it. There was a portrait of my mom and dad taken when they were very young. Mom's red hair was blinding, dad in his sailor suit. The portrait had been touched up a bit, the colors added after the picture was taken in some studio, close to my father's base. But they were beautiful. Children of the '40s. the "Greatest Generation." I shouldn't be too hard on them. They lived their lives the best they could. Besides, that my life sucks or doesn't suck is due only to my actions my way of thinking. It has nothing to do with my parents.

Friday, March 18, 2o16

There's a beautiful eeriness that Bowie's last album, Dark Star, hits me with. A Fist of Sound made even more powerful with the knowledge that it was Bowie's last album and that it was released on the day of his death. Bowie, quite the showman to the end.

I've come to a cosmic conclusion about my existence. You've heard it before from someone, somewhere: "I am what I eat." I know, don't get all over me about it, it is a cliché. But saying it and realizing that, for me, it's totally true, well, that's two different things, isn't. Just recently I found out that I feel better, have more energy, am clearer in my though process IF I eat "light." No burgers and fries, no fried chicken, no ice cream, no heavy, heavy food intake. A salad (light on dressing) makes me feel better. Apples, pears and other fruits are just good for me, AND veggies, lots of veggies. A little yogurt is okay, but like potato chips . . . I have a hard time just eating a little.  Popcorn is actually okay as long as I don't use butter OR oil with it. A little salt is also okay. So, the thing is can I make this adjustment to "healthier" living through "healthier" eating? We'll see.

Saturday, March 19, 2o16

A cool breeze almost knocks my Porkpie hat off my head. I shouldn't wear it. It's a little small for my head these days. My Bowler has suffered the same fate. Sad, they are really good hats, I paid a lot of money for them. I'm hoping that my wearing them will stretch them out a bit. I'm pretty sure that they have tightened up a bit since I bought them, and It's not that my HEAD got bigger. I need to find a hat stretcher. But if it is my head that got bigger, maybe a headshrinker. {laugh}

Anyway, a good day. Finally got David out of his cave and we drove around a bit. Every time the girls at Old School Bagel see David come through the door they head off to get his "special order coffee." They don't ask him. I feel jealous. They always wait for me to tell them what I want even though I always have the same thing, toasted bagel, pimento cream cheese, toasted and a large cup of coffee.

Like I said, a cool breeze today. I wore a long sleeve shirt and a hoodie. The sun not too bright. We ramble along Main St. stopping at Sprouts to get David some muffins. After that we head to the Speeding Bullet Comic Bookstore. There's a local artist there hawking his computer created comics, $5.00 a pop. I buy four. "Do you want the author to autograph them?"
the teenage cashier asks. I look back at the author and he smiles a giant comic book smile and, yeah, I want him to sign them.

Monday, March 21, 2o16
Last day of the third week in March, and I haven't written much that's worth much of anything. Sadly, the imagination is taking a ghostly holiday. The Muse too has gone abroad to find another writer to bless. Damn them! To hell with them! I still have fingers, I still have consciousness, I can write without the gaudiness of an imagination, or the sexual foreplay of an artistic Muse. I can write, damn it!

Had the weirdest dream last night! Yes, I had a dream! Well, one that I remember, at least. I was at this mansion somewhere talking to a kid (18-20) that (I'm guessing) lived there. And I'm trying to talk him down . . . about what? I don't know . . . well okay, me in the dream knows but "I" the dreamer hasn't a clue. Anyway I'm saying something like, "Look, if you're having problems, you can always talk to me . . ." He slams the door in my face, I start to walk away and then the door opens and the kid I was talking to has a handgun and he starts shooting me and I'm yelling, "DON'T!" and waving my arms in front of me trying to swat the bullets away before they hit me and at the same time I'm kicking at the gunman and . . .!  I wake up, my arms and legs flailing about! I think I actually said, "DON'T!" out loud.  Scary? For a moment, maybe. But I started to laugh uncontrollably! I haven't had as vivid a dream as that in a very long time.

So, his the end of my blog for this week. I'll try to be better at this next week. You know how it is. You write and write and write some more, and like that monkey at a typewriter, sooner or later you'll write "Hamlet." [smiles}

The daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o1

Thursday,
There's a glitch in the Matrix. I felt its sting yesterday. A sort of snapping sound like a winter branch breaking. A crunchy, unpleasant sound. I don't know who he is, this thing that lives inside me, dwells in some dark, quite place inside me. A secret me that now and then raises his voice, demands to be heard. And man, does its voice carry an impact. So loud, so strident it is that everybody can hear. Every person around me can hear him speaking in my voice, and of course, everybody believes that this foreign voice is me. Why shouldn't they? His toxic sounds are vomiting from my mouth, using my words in such a way all my friends think he's me. And though I'd like to tell them different, "No, no, that's not ME talking like an insane idiot, that's HIM, not ME," they know as I know  . . . WE two are the same person, the same alien, the same stranger that has always haunted this flesh. This flesh. This breathy life, this sand wet with age.

Saturday, March o5, 2o16

The trees are beginning to bloom . . . do trees bloom? I don't know. How can I write about  anything if I don't know about trees, or ducks or man or life? Anyway, the trees just outside my front room's window have begun to sprout leaves and flowers. Not all of them, of course, some of them are stubborn. Well, they are forced to change at least four times a year, and just when they get use to the winter or the fall or spring or summer they are forced to change again! So, it's not unreasonable to expect of few of the older trees to be grumpy about  change . . . "just when I got comfortable in this winter sleep, that asshole sun wakes me up."

The suns pleasantly warm today. Soothing to the skin which is glad to be outside the confines of a sweater or my dirty Levi jacket. They can breath again. That don't care that before too long the sun's brightness will force them to take shelter under a thick "coat" of white sunblock! Not much better or more comfortable than my Aran sweater I received as a present this last Christmas. Aran sweaters are another good reason to love the Irish!

I don't want to talk American politics too much on this blog. However, I am infected with it this year. Yes, politics is a disease, ESPECIALLY this season. I'm not a Republican. I'm maybe more aligned with the Democrats, but I'm not really one of them either. I don't like those kind of labels. If I need one, I would rather be called an American citizen who truly believes in the Constitution of the United States. Yes, I know, everybody says they believe in the Constitution. Not many do, though. Oh, sure. They believe in their personal rights granted to them by the COTUS. They believe in the Bill of Rights for themselves and the people who are just like they are, who think like them, talk like them, have the same religious beliefs as them. But the other guy? The American citizen that doesn't have any common bond with them? They don't count. The Constitution isn't for those people, it is only for "us." That's why I'm voting for Hillary. She is the one candidate that said, "The only way this country will work is if we All come together and make it work."

Tuesday, March o8, 2o16

I'm late writing the last post for this week. I know. I said I'd get this stuff out on time. I'm a failure. Hee! I am bummed out because I'm talking politics (mostly on Facebook) with friends who I can't at all agree with. It's not so much that they support this person or that person as much as it is their reasoning to support this person or that person. Their reasoning is usually off. They believe what they want to believe without taking anytime to figure out if their reasoning is right-on or all screwy. Why is that? Because their reason for supporting a certain person is just an excuse because they are going to support the person no matter what. NO MATTER WHAT! One friend of mine posted, "I am neither young, unemployed or Muslim. I have also kept the same job for nearly 18 years. . .and I am a Bernie supporter. I am neither young, unemployed or Muslim. I have also kept the same job for nearly 18 years. . .and I am a Bernie supporter. Your memes mean nothing to me." I have no idea what that means or why a person would say this kind of . . . hell, I have no idea what this phrase is. And by the way, the phrase, "Your memes mean nothing to me" is a bastardization of  a line from  the movie Manhunter. But most people don't vote for a person because this person or that person  really IS good for the country, they vote for them 'cause some how it makes them feel . . .cool. Yeah, cool. You see, picking a POTUS these days isn't based on "what the person can do for the country, but what can that person do for me." But I'm tired of talking politics to my friends and to myself and to you.  It's giving me a headache. I'll see you next week. If there IS a next week. {smiles}

Daily {W}Rite February 2o16 WK 04

I feel a bit of the cold on my naked back. Nothing much to write about at six in the morning on this the twenty-second day of February. Yes, I'm awake after only a few hours sleep. But I shouldn't have said that so loud because my eyes heard it . . . they finally force me to go to sleep.

5:13 pm
I should finish my Top Ten Movie List for 2o15 and go on to writing reviews about the two 2o16 movies I just saw, Deadpool and Hail, Caesar. But the right side and the left side of my thought factory are fighting. The right, of course, wants to create while the left, of course, would rather sit on the couch and watch the national news reports. I'm afraid that my "logical" side with its logical excuse, "Hey, you're tired, you should rest," has won the day. Maybe later on tonight, I'll feel more like writing. I hope so. {yawn}

Tuesday, February 23, 2o16 3:23 P.M.
It could well be that dreaming is merely a dimensional shift from one reality to another. And this shift in realities are ongoing. Even when we are awake, we're shifting. However, consciousness shifting can be so subtle we ignore it while we are involved in this conscious world. But when we sleep, we are far more aware of these shifts in reality. That which is becomes heightened to our dreaming eye. It can be so vivid, this dream walking, that we run from it into that "reality" we are more than familiar with. I think it's better to develop the waking reality to the point that we consciously feel through our senses those shifts. Life is far more interesting if we feel it, see it all.

Thursday, February 25, 2o16
Up early this morning. Called David at 8:30. "You up?" He mumbles something which I take as "Yeah, I'm up." I'm staggering around the room with a dream hangover sloshing around inside the brain housing group. I think I was in Japan and I kept turning into a kite and gliding across Tokyo, a crowd of people gathered beneath me. "Yea!" they kept yelling. I was laughing but also frightened that Godzilla might sneak up on me and gobble me up. I love Godzilla when I'm awake, but while I'm asleep and dreaming? I fear him.

I get my pants on, throw a shirt on and brush my teeth (put in the false ones) just as David calls me on the phone, "I'm here." I grab my hat, the button down sweater my sister got me for Christmas. I love that sweater. I grab my scarf hanging on the doorknob and out the door I go.

We meet up with Hazel at The Diner. Smiles and hugs and more smiles and hugs then we sit down at a booth. I gotta take the inside track because David's got his cane and he's having some trouble today getting up after he sits. And we talk and we laugh and we take pictures. We have the waitress (who called me by name for the first time. Before, when I would get up in time to make it to the Diner, she'd always greet me with, "Hi, hon!") take our picture with Hazel's phone.

We didn't talk that much about the "old days" when the three of us hung out. Mostly, we listened to Hazel tell us about her life in Pittsburgh, her son, her new "friend," her dog who just died. Not that it was boring, but I found myself nodding off every now and then. I had maybe three hours sleep before I woke David up. "Let me get out, man." David moves slowly to let me out of the booth and I wondered off to find the restroom which is all the way in the back of the Diner. After my visit, I sat on one of the stools at the counter, close enough to listen to the deep conversation that Hazel and David were having. I also pulled out my camera and pop off a few pics.

After breakfast, we walked Hazel to her car. Don't know when we'll see her again. She was just in Oklahoma to do some family business in Lawton. But I hope it's soon. Even though me and the Haze have a had a few rough spots in our relationship, we still think of ourselves as good friends. The nice thing about getting old is that you can forgive and forget the stupidity of your youth. Yeah, it feels good to forget sometimes.

Saturday, February 27, 2o16
Quite the adventure yesterday! Yes, indeed! But I can't talk about it . . . right now. BUT I can say it involved a cardboard box, a wet alleyway and me being totally homeless for about forty-five minutes or so. AND it wore me out so badly that I almost fell asleep while eating dinner at Cheddar's! AND then when I got home and tried to go to sleep? I found enough energy to stay up until
. . . well, I'm still not sleepy. But no worries. I put the coffee "up"  for tomorrow morning and swallow a couple of sleeping pills. Now all I need to do is wait for them to kick in.

I enjoyed life today. Yeah, I know, I should enjoy it every minute of every day! Come on, let's be a bit realistic, shall we? Not every moment of a day IS enjoyable. Sometimes, my body hurts, you know, old aging aches and pains, and even worse, those aches and pains of the mind. Sometimes it's all that I can do to just get through the day. Not always, but sometimes. I knew a girl back in L.A. that seemed to always be happy. She was a sweet kid, sure. But you know? I don't completely trust anybody who is ALWAYS happy because life isn't always as pleasant a thing as we might like it to be.

9:01 p.m.

Welllll! David and me have got to start timing our shared Alzheimer's because we can't both have a memory lapse at the same time. Hell, we'll windup stranded in Walmart with no recollection as to where we are or how we even got there in the first place.

Hillary slayed it in South Carolina, 73.5% to Bernie's 26%. A lot of young, very enthusiastic Bernie supports are grieving. But don't lose faith, young brothers and sisters, there's still plenty of work to be done. If Bernie doesn't get the nomination, the fight for economic justice still goes on. Take a rest if you like but get back to the task at hand.

I'm writing short pieces for the blog today. Well, actually, I've been short the whole week. It's good to focus on small, short thoughts instead of trying to cram into one entry my entire sad life. Hee! No, I'm not going there, dear reader. Yes, I'm feeling a bit anemic in the hopeful heart area . . . but no perspiration. It's just a few vultures circling my spirit. A few drops of memory spilling out across the desert that my mind has become. I'm all right and plan to stay that way. {smiles}

Sunday, February 28, 2o16
Oscars tonight. I'm rooting for the movie Brooklyn to take home Best Picture! It's like 400 to 1 odds that it will win. It is the BEST movie of the year (that was nominated) in my opinion. And because it is Oscar night, I will probably cut this "entrée" a little short. Sorry if this throws off your reader's appetite. But no worries. I'll come up with a fantastic dessert served to you tomorrow, the last day of this wonderful February.

Daily {W}Rite February 2o16 WK o3

Tuesday, February 16, 2o16
1:30 in the morning melts like black butter across the moons. Fingers across the rugged brows. Breathe in deep through the nose, the nostrils, dark tunnels. The ghosts can enter there. But always the itch begging to be scratched. A thought, a coffee cup full of thoughts spilling out onto the floor, the carpeted floor. It feels like blood, rich bright red, rivers of it circling around the bends, rich red flowing in warm circles. But the chill interrupts these . . . these . . . these . . . pleasantries when forming cold knots that block the natural currents, the natural rolling order . . . existence buries itself in flaking flesh. I look but see nothing. I rub the palms of my wrinkling hands against the temples but nothing changes. The patterns that the shadows make on the wall have become constant companion. I long for them to leave as I fear they never will.

Wednesday, February 17, 2o16

In a day a universe appears . . . No, a million galaxies . . . in the brown eyes of the chubby girl who hands you your coffee cup at Old School Bagel, her thin, moon-shaped smile . . . It feels more like a small sliver of sunlight on my eyes. Me and my friend sit a table . . . it wobbles a bit, the top still glistening and wet from the damp towel one of the bagel shop's random employees used to sweep away the Bagel crumps. We ramble on about politics, Hillary and Bernie, and we worry about who will win the general election. David produces a napkin from his pocket. The thing is covered with black letters . . . no words . . . a list of things he has decided we need to do in the next few days. For this afternoon it's a workout at the gym and then over to Spouts to pickup some muffins . . . Sprout's has really good muffins. But the universe always collapses iNevnto the black-hole region  of brain bobble.  My fingers implode no longer strong enough or wide enough to type another line . . .

I've always wonder if I'll wake up after falling asleep. My mother use to always pray with me at the side of my narrow bed. She taught me: "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take." I think I found it, as a little kid, to be comforting, protective. But once when I got older I at the end of the prayer:  "And if I die before I wake . . ." Wait! What? Die? I'm gonna die?! I haven't had a good night's sleep since.

Thursday, February 18, 2o16
Ex Machina has been my number one movie for 2o15. Unfortunately, today David and I went to see the movie Brooklyn and . . . what a total surprise of a movie. Damn it! If I add Bridge of Spies to the mix, I now have three number one movies! At first I whitethat might be cheating . . . but the hell with it! I can do whatever I want with MY opinion!  So, my favorite movie(s) of 2o15 IS (ARE):

1. Bridge of Spies 1. Brooklyn 1. Ex Machina

Friday, February 19, 2o16

Greek House. Wonderful Gyro sandwich, but hot as hell inside . . . the Greek House not the sandwich. Blond girl, white t-shirt, very white
t-shirt, in bright orange the name CLEMSON across the front. I see my in so I take it. ME: You go to CLEMSON? Her answer a charming, perfect teethed No, I did go to CLEMSON. I live here now.
I can't believe it but the conversation goes on. She's a lawyer setting up some kind of student something or other for OU. Her husband in the Air Force pilots an AWAC. Damn. I'm impressed. Finally, her order is up and she leaves me with a cheery, Nice meeting you.

I'm home again. The sandwich is good. Messy as hell, but oh the taste . . . Mmm. My body aches with sleepiness. I don't know why. I slept deep and for almost five hours the night before. It's foreign to me, my body is. I can't understand what it's try to tell me. But my mouth knows and answers it with a loud, long YAAAAAAAAAAAWN! So, I get the hint and sit on the couch and close my eyes and . . . my eyes pop open no more than five seconds after I shut them. Damn my eyes! Bastards. They never want to shut down,  not even for a little while.

Saturday, February 2o, 2o16

Mr. Hyde appears out of nowhere, from somewhere behind the counter at Starbuck's. Foaming at the mouth, a slippery shout echoes from his mouth, "Are you crazy? Only Republicans can be bought. I mean, they have the Wall Street, big corporations, billionaires . . . the Koch Brothers?! I mean, what the fuck? Planned Parenthood doesn't have money enough to buy a politician!" That makes a kind of sense. Well, not really. But politics doesn't make sense anyway, and people just go crazy during the political season. I sip at my coffee and try not to go insane . . . no good. I feel blood in my eyes and say something like: "You know this fucking country is never going to survive if it doesn't get its shit together. We have to work together, Republican and Democrat, straight and gay, religions have to learn to except the other guy! Fuck! The founding daddies created this set of rules that we all have to follow if it's to work! You know what the grand design for America is? They created a place where everybody can prosper! That was their genius (or insanity), they believed that a group of people who have absolutely nothing in common could come together under one country, one flag and make something beautiful for everyone involved." Yeah, I think I'm screaming a bit. But it seems to do the trick. We're no longer arguing about politics . . . I rub at the headache that just took residence inside my skull as my bloodshot eyes watch Mr. Hyde shrink and fade away until he becomes the smiling face of the cute, blond Baristas who served me coffee about an hour ago. Another scary question enters my brain . . . why are all the woman/girls that I talk to blond and cute? I've creeped myself out with that bit of thought.

Sunday, February 21, 2o16

I say something like, "Why don't you give me YOUR signature and then I can look at it . . . " I have no idea what I was thinking, but I could tell by the look on the beautiful waitress's face (not blond this time, black hair, raven black hair eyes and dress) that I was sounding stupid . . . and creepy. "That's funny," she said without a hint of humor in her voice. I embarrass myself, make an ol' fool of myself all the time. I don't need help looking like an idiot. I can manage it on my own.

I feel like a tire, a bicycle tire, a thick bicycle tire . . . slowly losing air. Bubble, bubble. Air bubbles rising from the water we use to submerge our bike tires in to find the air leak. Mine is located in the center of my big fat mouth. There's another slow leak in the back of my head. I can see it, but I can hear it letting out all the common sense  . . .  well, the little pocket of common sense I carry around up there. It hisses like a tiny snake, escaping into the darkness that grows around me. Yes, I tend to go blind when I choose to act like an asshole.

So it's the last day in the third week of February . . . and I haven't accomplished a thing. Okay, I wrote a bit on the blog. But poetry? Movie reviews? Naw. I keep putting it off. Oh, there's always next week and the week after that and . . . This will be all I write this week. Thanks for putting up with my neurosis, dear reader. Ha! I had to look neurosis up: neu·ro·sis, n(y)o͝oˈrōsəs noun: neurosis; plural noun: neuroses: 1. A relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behavior, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality when compared to psychosis.

The Daily {W}Rite February 2o16 WK o2

41 degrees, 5o mi. an hour winds coming out of the Northwest, wind-chill makes it feel like 31 degrees and I decide what a perfect day to take my bike out for a spin. And I'm not a total idiot, I checked the front room window with my hand, yeah, it's damn cold out there. So, I layered up, heavy, long sleeve pullover shirt, a hoodie over that, cool hipster sock hat, my brownish-red winter scarf, my thick winter coat, and my bicycle gloves inside my winter gloves. Ready to go.

Well, the wind is a thug. Smacks me and my bike around so hard . . . we almost fell over. And when it wasn't attacking my me directly it kept lifting my loose fitting  stocking cap off my head! "Fuck this!" I step off the mountain bike and push it almost all the way to Michelangelo's. My lungs were burning like fire. I stopped, wrestled my inhaler from my jean pocket. Better. But still it was so cold and I had four blocks to go. The good news is that since the wind was blowing from the Northwest the ride home was a dream! It's great when MoNa decides to be helpful. All you can really ask for is the wind at your back.

Tuesday, February o9, 2o16

The Super Being has laid out some tests for me. I have been begging Him/Her to help me get over this persistent anger I have with . . .everybody in this world. And he started yesterday in His/Her round about way giving me little annoyances for me to deal with like cars and trucks parked on the sidewalk where I'm trying to ride my bike in that dreadful "hurricane" wind we had yesterday. Yeah, not a big thing. I did cuss to myself a little bit, "Stupid assholes!" And then I turn the corner right smack into a big rig parked at the curb delivering building supplies to the guys who were building some unaffordable apartments. I surmised they were the ones parked on the sidewalk. It pissed me off even more . . . and THEN I stopped at The Garage for a burger and was verbally assaulted by the nastiest waitress I've ever met! Well, you can guess I was boiling . . . and then I heard a voice inside my head snicker. Yeah, pretty sure it was the Supreme Being. So, I got it. I cooled off a bit. I know what He/She was telling me, "Don't sweat the small stuff. In fact, don't stress out about any of it."

Wednesday, February 1o, 2o16

I enjoy those nights when the blood in my body slows down, flows evenly through the narrow channels of veins. Particularly good, the slowing down of my thoughts, the images that often enough jump out at my consciousness from the dark corners, the niches, the alleyways that my brain creates. Yes, speed. Nothing's scary, nothing can spook you if it is forced to slow down.  David and I got our "problem" sorted out. We talked about what happened a bit and then we both apologized. So, I guess we're friends again. No, no guessing about it. We're friends.

So anyway, a peaceful, productive day. Spent time with Lynda going over the Endgame scene we are performing for her brother's . . . wake? Memorial? I don't know what people call those "events" where the friends and relatives get together to celebrate the life of one who is no longer with us. I'm no direct, personal  experience when it comes to death and funerals and stuff. I don't know. I never was close to anyone when they died. I hadn't seen my father much before he passed. Same with Mom and my brother Dennis. Maybe that's riff in my character. A sociopathic lack of empathy when it comes to the suffering of others? No, not really. I just don't know how to express those emotions well. I feel them, but . . . they just don't come out. Afraid of them, I guess. I always runaway from that kind of sadness. Maybe getting too close to the deaths of others will . . . drive home the idea that I too am mortal. A God Complex, then? No. I'm too human to ever consider myself a god.

Anyway, I'm feeling good about life today. Believe it or not I'm smiling as I write this. But how long will it last? I've been on this ride before. Everything seems to be fine and I'm feeling hopeful and then BAM! Back down in the depression basement. Well, maybe this will be everlasting, this peaceful mood I'm in. maybe this time there will be no boogieman jumping out at me when I least expect it.

Thursday, February 11, 2o16

Facebook insane with chatter about the newest discovery . . . gravitational waves! Okay, it wasn't actually discovered today. It was predicted by Einstein in 1916, but it was only a prediction. Today they actually found evidence that gravitational waves do exist! So, what does all this mean? Not sure it means much of anything. Yeah, gravitational waves do occur, but their physical manifestation is so slight they can only be detected by extremely sensitive instruments. So, Cali. surfer boys are shit out of luck. No big kahuna waves heading your way, no giant, crushing vibrations destroying the world. However, poets? Cool! Another image we can use to express this fantasy we dream each waking day. Think on it a bit. Think of the multitude of metaphors and similes you can get out of this discovery!
Gravity Waves

Gravitational Waves. Surfing  the ripples without wiping out. That's what life is all about. But if you do take a header? Get to shore, treat your wounds, feel better and head back for more. I wave too, at her, but she never waves back. I'm no more than an empty coffee cup to be filled, a crumb of cold, stale toast she sweeps away with a drone like swipe from her damp bar towel. She wants me to leave. I see her prayers welling up along the edges of her sea blue eyes. I take the hint; I leave a good sized tip and recede back into the darkness of Main St. from where I came. We all crawled out of the darkness; and back to the darkness we all must go.

Sunday, February 14, 2o16

Well, I had about a weeks worth of energy that I spent mostly on writing, but then yesterday after Franks memorial service . . . that energy just drained out of me. My creative side lies comatose in front of my computer. Brendan has posted his 2015 Movie List (finally) while I just star at that blank page on my computer. Okay, not totally blank. I've finished six short reviews . . . only fourteen more to go! {big sigh}

The Daily {W}Rite February 2o16 WK o1

Change comes, when it comes . . . a lightning bolt, fast and swift. A bright flash. The eyes, the mind scurry to adjust, let the fuzz of the blast fade away, clinching of eyelids shut, long, frantic fingers rubbing at the temples . . . sooner or perhaps later the blurred vision, the headache slamming into the skill will subside. Change is hard on a soul. Godliness is lost if not forever for a while, a long while that seems to stretch into eternity. But change does . . . come, Anger ebbs like the tides at twilight. And for a moment, a crinkled up moment, you can breath again. Open up the window and take deep breaths of the warming currents, the wind shedding its skin. The world at peace.

3:15 P.M.
An exciting race to the POTUS. Hillary barely squeaked out a win over Bernie . . . or did she? Still seems to be up in the air. Cruz over Trump! Well, at least in Iowa. What will happen from here on? Anybody's guess.

So, I'm back to singularity mode. The Black Hole of friendship has swallowed me up again. Not sure this time it will spit me back out. But it's okay. I've been here before, like waiting at a secluded stop for the bus to come along and pick me up. No more hitchhiking for me. Too many crazier folks than moi in the world who're just looking for that lone hitcher that no one will ever miss. Again, it's okay. The solitary confinement gives me plenty of time to write on the blog and work on my poetry. But what for? No one's ever going to hear my poems, very few people really read my blog. I guess none of that matters. It's the writing that counts. The unraveling of all the knots I've made in this ball of twine I call my mind! Hee! That's not too bad a phrase. Yes, my life is just one big "trigger warning." Just about anything, any perceived slight at be being can set me off into a rage. But I've known that. AND all my friends through the years (which aren't many) knew that . . . and still felt it was okay to bang me around mentally, physically, spiritually. Well, I promised myself way back in the when that I wouldn't let anyone beat up on me without one hell of a fight.

Wednesday, February o3, 2o16

Morning gallops through darkness
clouds of ash radiating from her hoofs.

I sniff the sulfur that burns eternally, an everlasting  offense
to the gentleness of smell.
Lungs pumping fire, refuse
to cooperate with the words scattered across mildewed lawns.



There 's a lion, an old lion
hiding there within the grass,
painted edges along his mane
scraped away to nothing but bone.

And shadows, his decaying shadow
melts like snow in the coming light.
My light growing, shaping itself
into a memory. My mind can no longer
fight the urge to sing out,
shout out. The multicolored ducks bring
to the festered gray pond
a sense of hopeless hopefulness.

Thursday, February o4, 2o16

A giant sloth monster invaded my head this morning. I could barley move under its ponderous weight, its slow motion rummaging through  my PTSD (Post Traumatic Stressor Drawers). It tore at  all the finely knitted memories and remembrances that lived there. It's gone know, that monster, taking with it a ton of unwashed thoughts and wrinkled beliefs that no longer matter because they are absent. No use crying over the living or the dead . . . too many of each to grieve for them all. Let the wind bury them, let the rain drown them, let the sun come out and mummify them . . . the crows can do what they wish with the remains; not that they or I will complain. We never complain.

Pull open the blinds. Watch as the sun begins to dim, as the afternoon sparrows, flutter about with no directed direction, first North they fly, then South then out toward the sun as . . . if . . . as if all were meaningless, all of it so dumbfounded  meaningless from the day that our eyes opened and we saw the world staring back at us, as if it never mattered this matter that we have become. Sometimes when I watch the sun dying and the clouds gathering in the East, I wish I might transform into  crow  because a crow never thinks or worries in circles like this human does . . . always. Their desire to be is so linear the universe ignores them. Even the sparrows refuse to acknowledge their existence . . . except, of course, for those occasions when a hungry crow raids a fresh sparrow nest . . . ! Then the thieves must flee as fast as their wings will carry them because as everyone knows: You don't fuck with a sparrow's progeny. Its nest is its castle.

I won't waste any more words on this. I'm too busy at the moment deciding which pair of slippers my feet will wear from this moment until it's time to shamble off to bed. Shamble off to bed. More like the stagger of the last walk of the prisoner to the electric chair. They don't use electricity to kill anymore. There's something ironic, I think, about ending a life with electricity. I don't know why I said that. I must be more tired than I thought. Perhaps the sloth has come back to pillage what's left of my sanity. Is the saying true? Do the guilty always returns to the scene of the crime?

10:00 P.M.
"The Artful Smear." best line out of the Bernie/Hillary debate. Listening to the wrap-up afterwards. Many feel that Bernie came off the best, but for me it was Hillary came off the best. Bernie sounds like a Liberal version of Donald Trump. "I'm gonna make America better!" Yeah, but can you really? The thing is America is "better" already, and will continue to get better with debates like this one.  Hillary was on top of everything, Bernie is weak on global issues, and the POTUS needs to be strong on that. You can't be president just because you say, " Free education, free healthcare!" Sounds good but isn't a viable approach.

Friday, February o5, 2o16

For the last couple days I've been lost in the mind closet. No, not a sexual thing, my closet. It's what I call the dark place, that secret room in my head where I keep all the angry memories. I have to feed them once in a while although I try not to make that too often. They scare me. And I'm not sure why. They're confined to barred cages, with thick wooden slats and an unbreakable lock, but the arm reach of those angry thoughts? They have a way of grabbing me no matter where I'm at or how far away I run. But that's cool. Don't be worried about me and my sanity. The truth is, I've never been sane nor do I ever hope to be so. However, most times I have a handle on my crazy brain. I allow it to live, to thrive without setting the demons loose on the world. I don't think you can tame insanity nor do I think you should try. I mean, THAT would really be crazy, right? BUT if you guide your mental illness towards a positive, creative expression (note the word positive), you can allow you mental illness to express itself in a way which is harmless. Hell, if you have the "gift" of creative craziness,  society welcomes you, calls you a  genius or a artistic eccentric. Both terms create a pleasant image for your insane self. So, I let my moodiness create art . . . . some kind of art. I take pictures of myself and others, play around with them on Photoshop, create little animations, sometimes, like the one above. I write this blog, poetry, plays (well, I haven't written a play since maybe '89 or so). And most days I allow my "strange ways" of thinking dress me. Wearing weird "outfits" are fun for me, and the people I run into on the street often get a kick out of it too.

The problem is that this creative outlet for my "dark nature" works most of the time . . . but not all the time. Sometimes the monsters need my attention, they get hungry. And they will not be denied. BUT again, don't get freaked out. All you do is stay away from folks and pay attention for awhile to that darkness that always haunts you. See? Pretty easy to live an insane life without harming yourself or anyone else. When I start thinking back on those nasty memories, and their thick, claws grab me around the throat . . .  I write a poem about then or a blog entry . . .  like what I'm doing write now. I allow those things to breathe a bit on the page. Let them walk around the apartment in their underwear if they like, let them rant out loud a bit . . . though the neighbors may not like that much. My neighbor does that a lot. At two or three in the morning he starts yelling about something at someone who's not there in his apartment.

I remember remodeling an apartment building in Hollywood back in the '80s.  There were a lot tenants still living there,  and they had lived there for a very long time. We were working on the hallways changing out bulbs, repainting the walls when one day we heard this angry male voice yelling from behind one of the apartment doors, "DON'T HAND ME THAT MONKEY SHIT, YOU SON-OF-BITCH!" Whoever he was, he kept saying it over and over again. At first we were all kind of shocked and watching over our shoulders thinking that maybe the guy would come out with a chainsaw and slash us all to death! And he did finally come out and we all about shit . . .! until we realized he was just this skinny, little old man with a cane. Hell he could barely walk let alone swing a chainsaw! "Hi, boys, how you doing?" he said with the biggest, friendliest smile I had ever seen. He was harmless. He was just feeding his monsters before he left the confines of his small bachelor's apartment to join the rest of the "real"world. Like I said, monsters can't be tamed. But you can housebreak them. Oh, and always remember to feed them once in a great while, but NEVER after midnight! {smiles}

Saturday, February o6, 2o16

David and I talked a bit today. Looks like our friendship is going to survive our falling out the other day. That's good. Don't know where I would find another friend as good as David. He hasn't been feeling well for the last few days. Some kind of virus his daughter says. Was thinking about going to the Mardi Gras Parade on Main St. tonight, but since David is sick I don't have a ride to it. I could jump on the mountain bike (I just bought a really good air Pump from Walmart) but I'm not real big on doing that in the cold weather. Okay, NOT real cold, but cold enough to make me think twice about riding down to Main St. after the sun goes down.

Sunday, February o7, 2o16

This year crowed with people dying. Big people to the smallest human drifting across the earth breathed their last. if I were a grumpier old dude than I am, I might say, "GOOD! More air for me to breathe!" But I find not an inch of happiness in the thought that someone, that anyone friend or foe or stranger should no longer be on this plane of existence. Is there more than this life? Some hope there is. Some fear the thought that life continues beyond the ashes placed in an urn. Me? {mischievous grin} Well, I have my notions about the whole thing, to be sure. Most of us do have some thoughts on the subject. But I choose to keep my thoughts of death private. Yes, of course, you might find a hint or two about me dying philosophy in lines of many of my poems, but I doubt anyone would care enough about what I think to dig through each line of every poem I've ever written just to find out. But if you are curious, I do have one bizarre poem that speaks on the subject of  no longer being present in this world:
History

In this life

each shadow has been broken,
shattered— if you will— into a billion,
or perhaps a trillion insignificant pieces.

Far too many,

too, too many jagged shards to ever piece
together into one coherent thought or— if
you will again— one singular existence.

For instance: archeologists, not yet born,

would have fun trying to sort me out,
“One unhappy childhood here,
a piece of broken heart there...
Hmmm, a memory! Sitting at sunset
watching twilight gain momentum?!
What does that mean, what does it all mean?”

History isn’t written but lived, breathed,

shaped by circumstance and happenstance—
like a drunken dance down a darkened alleyway,
my frayed pants bunched around my knees
upon my legs a breeze, a mighty breeze
my manly hood exposed in all it’s glory—
but that’s another story for another time.

My past,

a labyrinth of crooked paths that these thoughtless feet
have traipsed upon in muddy boots and high heel shoes.
Scarred by love, hope, dope fiend fingered scratches,
this one’s long amber hair. That one’s poisonous stare
which curdled bone and heart. This one’s inner thighs
like silk and fleshy Hershey Bars— the stars at night,
the moon so bright our shadows melted into galaxies,
perpetual lust that churned midnight into dawn . . .
and on and on it goes until all stops . . .

Until it finally stops! Once and forever.

Mush-muddled memories French kissed to death
by a Mack truck reality, a fantasy car jack,
a head on collision that welds the two together
in bare naked truths and half clothed lies,
unable to distinguish now between an absolute fact,
an extravagant but all so minor puppy dog fiction.

And if by chance I am (for better or for worse)

found out to be  more mortal than immortal,

if by chance my solid flesh does melt

like ice cream on a summer day,
what shall the others say of me
when I (at last!) do shed this misery,
when dust reclaims the  dust,
when thought turns sour,
when those hours left no longer matter,
when this matter doesn’t matter anymore,
and Einstein’s cosmic Relativity
no longer seems quite… relative?

What will they say about me? “Oh, Him!

Yes, him! I’m afraid, I didn’t know
him will . . . nor did I ever cared to.”
Woodie 4-16-09 (rewrites o2-o7-16)