Thursday, March 19, 2015

My Inert Self

My Inert Self

You shine so brightly
I wish to call you stellar
though you hug the ground
of my inert self,
lay across me, a fallen
leafy limb digging
in to my edges
as if I am fine wet sand.
I so love your light.

‎November ‎30, ‎2010 1:08 PM

I haven't had a lover for so long now I have to make them up. Life is hard. Then you die. Alone.

To be real about things, I live alone in this basement arrangement. The fine lady who lives upstairs and rents me this portion of her basement is my long time friend and former lover of five years. It has been many years since that time but she has seemingly promised to keep me company as I age. She returned from Canada to remodel her house and take care of me while she does that.

I also share with a moody calico cat and I am visited often by one of the kindest dogs in the world who lives upstairs too. She is somewhat large because she is half Irish Wolfhound and looks it. She is stocky and loves bones. There are other people upstairs too, so I can be as social as I wish.

Currently there is a barber who works nearby and three trained young men, singers. They all specialize in opera. They are in town for several months participating in a program to present opera to various groups, mainly children. They travel all over Oregon to do this. They offer scenes from The Barber of Seville and perhaps arias from other works too. They have to hump their own stage sets.

I get out and about as often as I like, but these days I am motionless for long stretches of the day. Oddly this is like I was when I was working - in the same place for weeks on end, doing much the same thing every day, among the same people.

I had a cubicle and all the tools and devices I needed to produce engineering drawings of mechanical equipment and support structures and I sat there most of the time while I puzzled out solutions. I was free to move about the bakery (factory) but I had to have a reason because drawing production was my job and that could only happen at my desk.


  1. As if

    You say that you are tired
    Most days
    So you say
    And I believe it
    You say you are tired
    And I say to you I have been there
    In different ways
    I have been tired
    So tired
    Of the pain and internal struggle
    I say to you I can
    But can I
    I don’t know
    Are they the same do you think
    Or am I trespassing
    Stumbling around stepping on your
    If so I apologize
    And again I ask your forbearance
    I told you once you don’t have my permission to leave
    This planet
    As if I could deny you that dignity
    You can go or come as you choose
    I say that as if you don’t already know

    1. I do already know. You are not stepping on my toes. In a sort of way you probably can relate but I think there is a patina to age that can only be encountered at the end of a long life. So big chunks of this enforced quietude can come to the young, and especially to the chronically ill. But the patina of which I speak only arrives somewhere beyond the fifties, I think.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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