Reentry

 It was a million o'clock in the morning.

I closed the bathroom door, reflecting

More on New York, borough of Queens,

Where Flushing began and must remain

As my motorcycling neighbor kickstarts

His brain. What this means is we're not

Quite deaf where mind and morning

Mingle, but  see fine from our ships

That slip among stars, see this single

Moment of ours expand over worlds,

Walls. A flag of space and time unfurled

Above, past thrall, manumission, bondage

By little ships, curious and full of love.

SECOND COMPOSITION OF ONE

 In an attempt to unboggle this bloggle, I  posted its photo and poem on "Invalid's Workshop" --a poetry blog I've maintained without whack for 14 years. It gained 16 views this week but no comments, which is unusual. I have transferred its photo and text here, to this blog to see if any comments come through. It is called

                                       The composition of one:

                      

                                 Up? Down? How 

                 Does one tell time

                 When time is done?

                 An end undone or

                 Begun in infinity--

                 Divinity calls, even from

                 Faces fixed in walls.

          ****************************************************

 I'd sure appreciate any comments on this poem here to ease solicitude re. mechanical lack or general whack. I do not understand either one and welcome assistance.

Temporarily out of whack. Happy New year anyway!

Toward My Birthday

 Not too long from now I will be 73 years old, which means I predate Democracy (perhaps I still do, but questions remain). There is an old

scar from sternum to navel incurred during a high school P.E.unit on machete juggling. My neck? there is a scar halfway around from my vague insult to the king --legally considered only half an insult punishable half a beheading. 

I guess my job now is using geriatric tissue to hold these scars together.

Tuesday Update Enigmatically Belated

 This was written yesterday evening. I look back deliriously from 4 pm Wednesday enjoying a comparatively frigid 106F

Since getting out bed this morning I have felt confused, threatened. You? Hope not. When Vineyard -- a census designated community 5 miles from Sacramento-- between Wolfe Heights and Sloughhouse wakes its designated census to 100 degrees Fahrenheit then amps it up to 118 degrees by 3p.m. we patriotically head for the wineries. My favorite is Woodbridge Cabernet on the rocks.

Now it's nearly 6 and temperature has dropped only to 115. Short blasts of fire: Arrivals are signaled same as when you open a hot oven door. The wave of heat passes among bar patrons,  trying to make our bloodstreams  connect.

Suddenly our perceptions are troubled. I have frequented this winery for 50 years --reunions, retirement parties, family get-togethers-- but never encountered such grammatical damage (transposing 2 of 3-letters) in a direct object, AR to RA :

 2 well-dressed refreshment-seekers walk into a bra.

      
  I return now to Wednesday and its mere 106F temperature. We live and love and enter the whims of weather, the future. I am a rational man but still,

regarding time, a wandering nincompoop.

YOU? 

Healing Enigma

Photo below is one composed by Daughter and Norma some years ago. Poem and background machineries were committed by me  --scrap wood, words, fun.

 What this has to do with healing is exemplified by recent experience with protracted drought and pandemic. I hadn't had so many dear neighbors and friends drop dead since the Vietnam War. We of that generation called it euthanasia, and were much pleased and surprised when Nixon (of all people!) pulled youth out of Asia.

Enough. There's some sadness in this post. Although I'm reading my favorite humorists while recuperating, I also sneak into Chas. Bukowski; "...those who escape hell, however, never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that."

I have also exercised my addled brain on history; lately studying Henry VIII, a monarch of the Tudor family --replaced in1603 by the Fourdoors. Carriages got longer. Good night.

The Return Of E(a)rnest

"Chuff chuff!"
 

"Eh?"

"It's me, Geo., long time no see."

"Hmmm, 4 years by my count. You haven't changed a bit!"

"Well you have. What's that you're leaning on?"

"It's my cane, E(a)rnest. Keeps me from stumbling on uneven ground."

"Makes you look  Old."

"In paved public, I hide it."

"How?"

"I jam it down inside my pants-leg and look loads younger."

"Geo., I won't argue with you. I've spent the past 4 (and more) years studying human politics, as you know, and learned about partisan bellicosity, bowdlerization of humanistic constitutions "justified(?)" by shameless sophistry."

"Dear E(a)rnest, we haven't corresponded enough.Your learning is beyond mine. I can only claim age-related bouts of excrementitious mentality, and ask  your patience."

"Chuff chuff."

"I love you too."