blue moon morning
we wake in bed under an open
window -- it's a sloshy, steady
rain as gray dawn light wraps
us together, naked, warm.
i mumble some of my dreams
as i spoon ann, she chuckles,
& we're amazed the animals
haven't already been
trying to get us up.
cat's in the doorway,
dog's on the floor at
the end of the bed,
asleep. we have a big
day: chores, waiting
on the last dell shipment,
grocery-shopping
which i have already
performed. beat by it.
ann is cleaning our kitchen
floor after scrubbing out
the fridge to a newer,
cleaner condition while
i did quality market duty.
before i left she made us
eggs & toast & coffee.
rain splatters over our house,
over everything outside.
nice, we love this kind of
weather. there's a second
full moon of the month
tonight,
& that's good too.
there's HELLBOY dvd
to watch again since
we fell to sleep before
probably the middle
of the movie last
night. it's a fun film.
it's a fun life.
funny i see life
as fun. i have to run
the vacuum today,
& that's not fun,
tho it is,
it is.
i'm dead, who am i
hyenas' claws harp
at my ass. i'm a screaming,
edible, stringed instrument in gold
eye sunbeam morning,
& this isn't l.a. or san
pedro. this isn't especially
amerika. i'm in rotten
guts of disbelief, ripped
like a fucked, old race-horse.
jane is drolling from wine
we guzzled last evening & night.
she sleeps with a face that
cld finally kill god.
& she's not even the
anti-christ, just a drunk
hooker i like
because she's so
shattered, because
she's a shattered
woman beyond repair.
i can wake her,
tell her to get the
holy fuck
out. hyenas
just sniff her
ass & cunt,
reject
her as food or a
victim of
torture. these
fuckers want
me, awake, head
pounding,
typing standing
up &
bleeding profusely
from each broken
flower-bud of
my finger-
tips.
i don't know
why the little
radio is
smashed.
i'm making
up mozart symphonies
in the middle
of my soft brain
complete with
real church-
bells &
slices of street traffic.
otherwise,
nothing means
shit, really,
other than this poem,
& mutating jackals
called
common
men.
morning news
heartburn, 3 beers,
cheese sandwich with mustard,
for breakfast after
coming home early from work
& showering & walking
around nude fast by open
windows way pre-dawn.
i'm going to be 50
godfuckingdamnit,
50. half a century
& here i am half of
that, broke, oh it's
better now, bills do
get paid, that's an
achievement, that's a
plus. but that isn't
much for 35 years
working jobs,
treading waters of
shit & vomit,
simple amerikan
factory survival. others
have it better,
others worse. i haven't
ever had better
than now, so i'll
be a buddha,
a small metal buddha.
life is ok.
i never know what i'm doing,
or what i've done.
maybe brain disease.
maybe poet reality.
50, a fool on no hill,
lennon & harrison dead,
a long line of dead people
behind me: also behind
are hordes of youths
at the same edge of
existence. we have a
new computer.
we have blessings.
we have a dog & a cat,
& kids, grandkids.
we are eccentric people.
50 seems a central number,
i don't know why,
it doesn't matter.
i'm alive, still
biological,
& a poet.
golfers versus poets
my dad was a golfer. he'd
chip shots in the side-yard,
or just practice his swing
for a while, pretend clover-flowers
were balls, where'd he'd
concentrate & eye,
elvis his stance,
fixate on a clover-flower,
& number-one wood
it nowhere. he spent
hours practicing his
swing. he used an old
green golf-machine
to putt,
you know those
ball-returning
machines on a
carpet floor.
i can golf too
but it's been decades,
& i don't want to golf.
maybe if i owned my own
course in hawaii
i'd be a happy golfer
& not need
poetry.
hawkings
steven hawkings has formulated
something newly bizarre about
black holes -- i just scanned
the story. what's more miracle
is this human mangled
in a wheelchair
talking by
computer, he's
incapacitated,
a physical
oddity
a thousand years
ago
wld
be
dead soon after birth.
this is not a coincidental
universe, altho it is
illusionary
coincidence
we
think
any
thought. we're
on mars,
goddamn it,
on a moon of
saturn.
that's
pretty
miraculous
too.
chilling
i'm running thorough scandisk
on our desktop computer, we
can't connect to the internet
on it, while this laptop still works
fine, wireless from netgear
on the desktop computer,
so something's working,
& something is not.
spent all day yesterday
fucking with it,
& today too. any
suggestions are
appreciated. it takes
a longer time to boot
up than before,
before it loads
windows me,
& it finally loads
but no internet
connection. page
not available.
i tried various
actions,
system restore,
unplugging modem,
etc...,
but i'm
stumped.
scandisk will
take another hour
at least to complete,
it found errors twice
but fixed them
& i ran defragmenter
too. i went to call
verizon this afternoon,
my dsl provider,
but there was a 30-
minute waiting period
announced by a computerized
female
voice.
i sd fuck it,
thumbed the phone off,
went back to trying things,
but nothing is
working.
it's not the first
time shit like this
has happened,
3 & a half years
we've had that
compaq.
maybe it's
time to go
all apple.
debt us deeper.
no, ann will
reasonably
say no.
she's still able
to write her novel
in microsoft works,
saved manuscripts
still show
up. that's
a good thing.
ron androla
read up
click to view movie/poem - eggs