Round
Trying to remember what I did yesterday.
Can't
Trying to remember what I did today.
Got up late went out to Camera's west to get old fotoz scanned.
Come back at 2:00.
Went to Lowes can't find a garbage disposal.
Go to McClendons can find a garbage disposal.
Buy it.
Take it home.
Get back in the car and go to Q.A. for some of the bread that Keth still likes although the sleazy Sara whatsis megacorp has raped the stuff so that it is now just another loaf of bread a pox on 'em.
Coffee at Starbuggers anyway.
Went to the Safeway at the bottom of the hill for decaf coffee 'cause we're almost out of the stuff.
And some cran-raspberry juice.
Went home.
Put the stuff away.
Took a pee.
Went back to south center and the Photo place to pick up the pic disc not ready yet comeback in 15 minutes.
Walked around for 15 minutes.
Got the pics and went home.
Read a book until just a little while ago.
Cooked some pork and vegetable and Chinese sauce and ate it then came here and did this.
now I remember some of yesterday went to school went to the library loaded some new music to my facebook site had coffee at caffee ladro licked a stamp saw a movie dropped a stamp and robbed a bank shot my way out of an argentine prison got elected president of a tiny mid european principality read a new yorker review of waiting for godot pushed a button pushed a button pushed a button pushed a button and
waited.
Can't
Trying to remember what I did today.
Got up late went out to Camera's west to get old fotoz scanned.
Come back at 2:00.
Went to Lowes can't find a garbage disposal.
Go to McClendons can find a garbage disposal.
Buy it.
Take it home.
Get back in the car and go to Q.A. for some of the bread that Keth still likes although the sleazy Sara whatsis megacorp has raped the stuff so that it is now just another loaf of bread a pox on 'em.
Coffee at Starbuggers anyway.
Went to the Safeway at the bottom of the hill for decaf coffee 'cause we're almost out of the stuff.
And some cran-raspberry juice.
Went home.
Put the stuff away.
Took a pee.
Went back to south center and the Photo place to pick up the pic disc not ready yet comeback in 15 minutes.
Walked around for 15 minutes.
Got the pics and went home.
Read a book until just a little while ago.
Cooked some pork and vegetable and Chinese sauce and ate it then came here and did this.
now I remember some of yesterday went to school went to the library loaded some new music to my facebook site had coffee at caffee ladro licked a stamp saw a movie dropped a stamp and robbed a bank shot my way out of an argentine prison got elected president of a tiny mid european principality read a new yorker review of waiting for godot pushed a button pushed a button pushed a button pushed a button and
waited.
posted by Lane Savant at 8:36 PM
3 Comments:
Melva and Andrea left yesterday
driving to Colorado
to see oldest daughter
and the "boys", grandsons Ethan
and Austin for even though they
lived with us for six months
they "missed them"; although
what we are missing are
all the changes toddlers go
through weekly.
It is amazing that
to be present while a critter
is growing in leaps and shits.
Woke up in the middle
of the night and realized
that it was piss time,
and in my sombulistic haze
I wondered why the house
seemed so empty, so quiet,
and then as I peeeed
a tiny morsel of awareness
came to the surface
of the gellatus mass
I have for cortex
in my sectegenerian decade.
The cat was in
but stayed upstairs.
The pug, Sir Charles,
went on the ride
to Colorado Springs
and actually I do not miss
that little black bastard,
though he does try
to be my friend, but mostly
just scratches my hands
with his razor sharp claws
when he jumps on me.
Yes, it is Friday
and I will thank God, Allah,
and every Mugwump that ever
gave milk to crack heads,
cuz I have license to go
to a shitload of movies
if there are any that are
worthy of my attendance.
I am seeing better with each day,
with each moment, now if I
could just fix the rest of
my old fatigued fat-asses self
even a fourth as much,
that would be boss bitchin
and way cool, so I have made
another emotional contract with
myself to lose some of this lard
that hangs on my like a midget
bodyhiker, carried mostly in front,
man-pregnant, tired of being hugged
like a short bowling ball, and being sad that I am too proud
to use suspenders which would keep
my pants up better than this cheesy
belt. Received a phone call
from my neurologist who is leaving, and now Doctor # 5 will
show up in a few months and report
for training with miou so that
I can get a few things straight
and keep my disability placard active. I still envy your
7 day weekends, your sleeping in,
your well-read self, dropping
literary and musical and
philosophical bits of data
on us like parade confetti
on a regular basis, making me
feel even more ignorant, more
inept than usual, but
also enjoying the research
to figure out what the hell
you are talking, blogging
about. I am embroiled
in a controversy with the
AFGE, the government employee's
union that won't let me drop
out, forcing me to stay in
for another year becuz I
keep forgetting there is only
a 21 day window that one is
eligible to drop out on
the anniversary of your month
of enrollment, which is March,
long gone, and only three months
before I actually retire,
and it just pisses me off
to be victimized by yet
another "gotcha",
you know what I'm saying?
It is going to be beautiful
for the next three days,
and it was nice to see
the peeking out, the blue
twilight dawn creeping
nearer as I ate my yogurt
fruit cup, and munched my
McSkillet burrito over at
Mickey D's, so I guess
you and Fidelio will have
some serious petal time,
and that will be special
for both of you.
Melva has been working hard
in our gardens, as I'm
sure Meredith has around
your domicle rancho hacienda.
Actually when you perform
all that errand running
and meandering, do you drive
the Prius? Are you down now
to just one car, a scooter, and a bicycle? With Meredith also being
retired though, it must take some
planning to figure out
who gets the Toy-toy, enit?
I love this form
you are kind of force-feeding
we of the Palmer persuasion,
even though it creates
more space with less
content, or maybe it is
more content in less space.
I am still kind of sad
about the possibility
that Al Kistenmacher is
a felon, a pedifile, needs
a petticure, and perhaps
has not enjoyed much happiness
in the 50 years since high school.
I am reading deeper
into the new book of poetry,
FACE, by Sherman Alexie, and
will get around to posting
some of those great poems
after I finish up with
my Hank Bukowski run, which is]
both easier because his stuff
is available on line, and one
does'nt have to retype it
like I'll have to do
with Sherman's. I wonder if
anyone ever brought my
blog site to his attention
if he, too, would be a pompous
prick like Sherwin Bitsui, and
demand I take down all
of his copyrighted material?
Oh well, I will not put a
metatarsil on that bridge
until it materializes.
I ordered I NEED A MAN from over
on Jannie's site. How about you?
I was brave and used Pay Pal,
since Ebay already forced to do so
several times recently.
What movie did you see?
What bank did you rob?
Who was your cellmate in prison?
What button did you push?
Why are you still waiting?
I have purchased four more
JONI MITCHELL CD albums, and
my mornings are nicer, more
nostalgic, gentler, cuter,
more esoteric, more
esthetic than heretofore.
Maybe one day when you
run out of insights and
ideas, you can scan a pic
of sister Janet, and do
a little bio on her
accomplishments. I have
not seen her for 35-40 years,
since we attended that
artist's gallery show at
the Rhino, or whatever the hell
it was called, where we met
Duggin before he married Sharon
and moved her to Matlock.
Bukowski wrote "thousands"
of poems, some of which
just are not that impressive.
Still he wrote them, and one
needs to read them cuz each one,
each word brings you closer
to the wrecked hulk alcoholic
sexist barfighter poet he was.
It does help me to have
more faith in my own scribbling
as long as I do not lament
that I have not actually
published jack shit, and
even if I did, so what, it
wouldn't make a dime, and
so my plan of beginning to
build my Poetic image, my
yettofind reputation as
a poet, out there in front
of an audience, at Poetry
Slams, and Poetry Readings,
at festivals, on street
corners, in men's rooms while
holding towels for jack off artists
and fags, on the steps of the capitol building in Olympia, in that little park adjacent to the old TAG building, down the street
from the Pantages in Tacoma,
during Sumner days, at pow wows,
at picnics, during breakins,
at theaters while plays are
being performed, in women's rooms
while they are doing mysterious
shit in their stalls,
in restaurants in the kitchens
while fry cooks are bustling over fryers and burning toast, in the
back seats of police cars
while they are in pursuit
of stupid street racers,
standing next to drug dealers
while they play pocket pool
and await their next score,
in coffee houses over in the
corner by the CD's and books,
in public libraries, several of
them since I will be tossed out
quickly for being too noisey
and verbose, in hardware stores
next to rakes and shovels
when I am not standing next
to the paint aisle, or
the nuts and bolts, at the
fish cannery wherever I can find
one, like the dinky one
on the Quinalt Indian Reservation
in the shithole of Taholah,
or that park next to the Public Market, when I am not hovering
next to those smiling dudes
who toss fish and catch them
for the tourists.
I suspect there is a poem
in here somewhere too,
and like an itch between
your shoulders that is
hard to scratch, somehow
I will, and the momentary
relief will placate my
present obsession with
Bukowski whom I never
would have liked, probably
would have found myself
in a fistfight with, but
still like the audacity
and raunchy riffs he set
into the muddy currents
of literature, and perhaps
even Harvey Goldner would]
agree, or Bobby Byrd would,
or might, that Bukowski
was necessary for us all,
part of our poetic rights
of passage, and hell
he lived to be 74 years old
even though he lived
like a drunken wharf rat
and probably never gave
a shit who was president,
or how much the price of oil
vexes the rest of us,
but come to think of it,
every once in a while,
when he was not too fixated
on pussy, wine, beer, his
cock, rats and roaches,
he did make some noise
about the injustices
and inequities he witnessed
during sobriety, between
bar flys, when he could
hold his food down,
and he felt good enough
to walk to the store,
or shave, so hey,
who am I to be fixated
or focused on his life,
his poetry, his broads?
This is probably just
another phase I'm going
through, although I must
say I have come back
to Bukowski several times
this year.
Glenn
Hey, Bobby Byrd responded
to my new poem, HANK,
which is about one third,
the bottom
of my last comment.
I guess I am poet-struck
which is odd,
or perhaps not so much,
for I get that old celebrity
tingle when a person of
some repute calls me
by name, and responds
to some inquiry of mine.
So I have brought myself
to the attention of Alex Shapiro,
Joy Harjo, Bobby Byrd, Mary Crow,
and Sherwin Bitsui...
but have not yet met or even seen
in person the rajah of riff,
our local celeb poet, Sherman Alexie.
I still smile when I recall mixing
up Alex Shapiro and Sherma Alexie;
got the Bozo award for that one--
although in 1954 I used to
mix up Barbara Stanwyck
and Joan Collins even though
their names are dissimilar.
Add ANGELS AND DEMONS
to your list of films to go see.
I went tonight, and it really
hums along, kind of more
James Bond and less Dan Brown.
Talked to Melva on her cell phone
this morning as they left Pennelton,
like the shirt. She was munching
sugar doughnuts and wolfing down
chocolate milk as they skimmed down
south on a lateral ride toward Utah.
I had a slack day at the office
so I cranked a bunch of work
out on FFTR--am missing your comment
on HANK though, if you were so
inclined. You know this identity shift
of mine from young Turk asshole
to honor roll student, to the outstanding
recruit in my boot camp company, to
malcontent and barrack lawyer, to wannabe
and then was a professional actor, to teacher,
special educator, to novelist, to movie
reviewer, and then back to poet,
where I sort of started out.
My grandfather, Pop, always
loved those poems I wrote
and used to recite to him
about him, and claimed that
poetry was my major talent,
what my ticket had written
on it; POET. Somehow I sense
your next entry will have Fidelio
stats in it, on it, and that is
always cool. In less than
a month I will be 65 years old.
In 2020 I will be 76, and that
will be a special visual acuity year,
enit? Maybe I will have my other
cataract worked on then.
Will we still be blogging our butts
off, feeling free to laugh and read
in 2020, maybe.
Did you dig the STAR TREK posting
I put on today? ST XI really has me
pumped on all 770 hours of its
mixed media, and Roddenberry
must have shit his coffin several
times by now, never expecting Trek
to outlast the life of most cars, a lot
of gang bankers, and thousands of dogs,
cats, and boxcars full of chickens.
In the 60's you were quite a Trekkie--
of course you were into computers
and Porn before the rest of us too.
With all the cars gone now,
do you have an iron deficiency?
Glenn
Hallo, Lane!
Glenn has soooooooo many lines here that, probably, nobody will get to this comment, but I must say it: Glad you got your coffee this time at the commendable Ladro rather than the robber-baron Schultz's Starbucks!!!!!
Tschuess,
Anonomann
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