Not seeing my self Self as a consolidation of effort toward desire, not at my age.
Just to write, just to stop and write.
Write Mt Fuji, Write Kilimanjaro, Write Annapurna, Write Denali, Write Mt Everest, Write the Moon.
Tag Archives: aging
The smog. Bangs. Hairdos. Smiling beggars. Rabid rabid. Tomato. The youth in the closet. Older face and incapacity. As clever as advertising.
Poem: all the old-time ladies’ names gathered in one place old-timey timey.
this one wants to write through everything
this one wants pigtails
this one wants to be the age I am
this one wants disabilities and aches and pains
this one believes in happiness
the floral happiness
the petalled extras
the extravagance
the vagaries
the vacuum vengeance
the cosmic curiosities
the wretched
there are unawakened
there are emotional storms
Ralph’s sadness and his brave front
how do you like your brave front now
Yes, the lies of training, the absolute corruption of conspiracy, my sons—they stabbed me in the heart and left, reverse Samaritans, walking on their own and I am alone and without sustenance. I miss my drive. I bought some pants and patience.
Chikeola sits there African and deep black and inhumanly strong and flexible. She touches my back, my hands, my feet, guides my elbows into microbends. Thoughts cross my mind—I’m 50, no I’m 51—and this is pretty good, right? Well no, she wouldn’t buy that, would she.
I have a fear of not being able to keep myself clean when I’m old, old and too proud to be seen.