Thursday, March 19, 2015


My Solitary Confinement. With a big window.
Stink bugs exploring the glass for months, 
leaning toward enlightenment..  Breezes from 
beyond. Social Media and on-line access. 
Coffee and hot chocolate.  A lean-back chair 
I can fall asleep in. Whether I getRdone or don’t,
 waiting for Gödel or snoozing or surfing the
web of the world: I won’t just do something.

To suffer in translation.  To die for.  Even if
I were younger and healthy-bodied I wouldn’t
be an activist, helping others. Cause  greater 
than my self. I tear-up at movies and sitcoms 
and tv ads but someone else’s suffering doesn’t
move me.  Might make a good cop or soldier, 
mercenary were I to do it  over—brain surgeon
or heart surgeon with little bedside manner 
instead of an educator .Sight of blood sometimes 
bothers me.  Ideas are more important than people.

I can’t handle the truth. Have to nail it down
so it won’t wiggle while I do my business.  Cut 
and stretch to fit my procrustean agenda—purpose, 
goals, aims and measurable objectives. Gluten is 
not a concern for me, but the fact that people play 
golf lets me feel better about my socio- pathologic.
It’s the case that knowledge of starving children
in Africa has never made the finishing-off what’s
on my plate or rice pudding more justifiable.
Wretch like me.

Like me. Really: like me.

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