First, I wanted sex, then a relationship. I had both.
After that, I lost interest.
To paraphrase George Thorogood – when I’m alone,
I prefer to be by myself.
I felt as if I were riding the trough of a huge wave
Moving lightning quick across some anonymous ocean.
There’s a wall of water in front and to the back of me,
But the trough runs quietly, pulling me along.
I sense that the wave will not engulf me; and I am safe.
And when some far shallows ascends, then the waves would break.
I would be deposited ashore, on my feet, of course.
I would stand, brush myself off, and go on.
You see, this was the exact way I’ve lived my life to date:
Being in the caprice of some disinterested force.
Slapdash running, letting time’s arrow, and scant else, guide me.
Now older, I cautiously watch that sea.
Father and son, holy ghostly, the spook’s
Gone down the road to seek the ailing king.
Never mind the media, they’re a bunch of kooks
And from their words no truth is gonna ring.
Just watch them now, dad and the kid, spot lit,
Smiling bravely as microphones edge nearer, nearer.
Their spirit’s gonna get etched away every little bit
By the acid rain of questions, the judge, the juror.
A hint of fear, a whiff of truth fills the freighted air
Blood recedes from clammy faces, n-nothing to say.
But then, like bells, the spook comes passing fair
He stops to kiss them both and doubt just flies away.
Clouds are heavy. They really are.
I mean, they’re water, that’s all –
8.34 pounds per gallon, that’s all.
According to scientists – thus spake Googlethustra –
Your standard cumulus cloud weighs in at 1.1 million pounds.
120,000 gallons of water, give or take a quart or two.
Looming overhead. If it all came crashing
(Hahaha! “Cloud crashing”…a concept)
Down, it’d do more than just mist your glasses.
And then some.
Keep a wary eye on that cloud…
It’s a time wall going forever from your onceness.
Just a distance, unknowable distance, behind you.
This is the once was, the back-in-the-day, that
Memory that funny feeling, that frisson that both
Is achingly real and breathlessly ephemeral.
All that has passed: the seeing, the hearing,
The tasting, the smelling…
Ah, it’s been a good life and fun.
If I have ever been anything, it’s low level angry
And low level anxious. Not always at the same time.
Back in the early 1800s, a person once remarked that
“Southern men are touchy about their honor.” Got it.
But the anxiety can be so distracting. It’s like some jangly
Train on a steady loop, going around and around.
And the worry is inevitably because I can’t resolve
The blasted matter at hand NOW, damn it.
I’ve made up long strings of conversations in my head:
Scenarios: Someone says this and I reply this.
Someone says this happened and I have the explanation.
And so on. Blah, blah. Nothing ever happens exactly
The way my rabitting brain voice rehearsed.
I do not consider myself devious.
I do not lie. I am not above misleading.
Funny thing: sometimes if I touch bare iron
Into deep ground, I can be relieved a bit.
I can also, I think, hold onto a ground wire
And dissipate the annoying worry energy.
But that could just me thinking antenna theory.
As I look back on 70 years, I do the typical math.
I toss out 15 years for being too young, then six months
Or so that are a bit hazy in the 60s and 70s.
And the rest is pretty much silent running, so to speak.
More ups and downs than a two-dollar whore.
And it comes out here: right here, right now.
Still rolling along, a little lamer, a little, well, tamer,
But doing new things, learning new words
And ways to move my hands in some new task
And ways to think, yes, that’s the best of the lot:
New ways to think. Example: the Prothonotary Warbler.
Long supposed to be called Prothonotary because
Papal Clerks in Byzantine Rome wore yellow robes.
Aside: the Prothonotary Warbler is yellow.
Well, a slew of sceptics called bullshit on that.
Scribes wore black robes, sometimes trimmed
In colors more suited to the gravity of their post.
Put a research in the slot: out comes a truer tale.
The bird acquired its melodious name in the South,
Louisiana, where a bit of French floats around.
A Protonotaire is the head notary in a community.
A nice guy, but rather on-and-on about things.
The call of the Prothonotary Warbler sings same.
It wasn’t the color, but the colorless song.
Life is delightful.
The weekend teems with possibilities.
A few grind boulders, for sure.
But I can overcome those, no problem.
The rest is just air to move through.
Or not move, for that matter.
I sloughed off that life and I didn’t even notice
Until yesterday when I realized that
I didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
Other things took its place so subtlely, so slow crossfade.
But I am not undamaged. I could not change events
Only accommodate to them as gracefully as possible.
Still pisses me off, though.
Everything is killing me. (Surprise!) Scientists agree.
Survey says: Everything is killing me.
Bacon’s bad. Artificial sweeteners are bad. Bread’s bad.
Lalalalala. I’m not listening anymore.
I’ve pulled through a lot of things in my day.
But I’ll not pull through life. Win the battles,
Lose the war.
<loud raspberry sound> So, stick it!
I’m having a great life. I’m charmed. I’m acing this.
I’ve got some money. I’ve got a job. I’m reasonably healthy.
I can’t see out of my right eye very well (herpes, you know),
But the left one doesn’t miss much.
And the world behind the eye, the brain that actually does the work,
Is clipping right along (but how can I tell?). Zoom, zoom.
I’m never bored
Often tired, though. Nap time.
Those battles that raged in the mists of time,
No scribes to record them
Or winners to spin them,
They thinned out the warrior class
Until only the Mighty (or, as in the case
Of the cook back at the camp, mighty lucky)
Was the sole general left standing.
A King to lead the country in peace.
The cook, ever humble, suggested,
“Take my daughter, please!”
The King, liking chestnuts, agreed.
The cook thought, “I’m set for life.
Now, if I can just figure out
Where to find a daughter.”
I have a problem with
“Smart as a whip” and
“Works like a charm”.
Whips can’t tell you the sum
Of two plus two.
Charms are just a type of candy.
Here take this “charm” and
Go frolic in the traffic.
How’d that work…
Standing at another crappy old yard sale
Wishing they had something I liked.
Money I’ve got in reasonable numbers
That’s not a problem, the offerings are.
Old clothes and shoes, treen and towels
Fancies and iron tools, worn with use
On sale real cheap, yours for a pittance.
But local post cards none to be found, neither
Old photos, fragile ferrotypes, paper
Worthy of note, pun intended. That.
But now and then a brush of the fingers
Reveals, well, you know how “pleasure”
And “treasure” happen to rhyme? Bingo.
That’s why I go to yard sales.