The Idea

The idea still is to celebrate life and its sensations. Keeping the smell of Spring, this idea must remain even beneath the weight of self-doubt, that skinny squinting interrogator whose bony fingers pull me down by my nose hairs (then clip 'em, fool). But no matter how short they are, he always gets up in there. That's what he does. That's his work, and he's good at it, and if it serves to underline my ignorance, that's okay. Life's zip must remain, and I should never assume that I know anything until it feels exactly right.

If done right, life makes the sensitive parts tingle to the point of pain, the feeling that, as the chainsawed, neon-vested city workers approach, maybe motivates the sparrow to sing of its home, "Tree-tree-joy (I sing and fuck, I sing and crap in my) tree-tree-joy." Then the cruel work of the saw, acceptably crazy because you gotta keep the power lines clear.

There will be loss, displacement, and its great sweeps of emotion freeze me, but soon I get back to hammering. I hammer words and chip off more than I should. It's crude, but it's my work. Work is important to a man. In a vulnerable moment, my work allows a clear view inside to anyone who's looking, who has been bitten and not yet dead within.

The idea is I can dance. I just keep the hips loose and keep the mind away. That feels good.

The idea is I can fly. Rather, I can survive a fall.
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Hey Doc

Some days inner weather obscures the creative sun. Directionless, I stumble around, sometimes to discovery, but mostly down dead ends into trash bags. Wet trash stinks like rotten cabbage.

Other days the creative sun burns so brightly that it illuminates everything. Words race. I laugh because the path is so clear, almost too clear, and why didn't I see that before? A spill is a waterfall. Nature is a wonder.

Does this require medication? I don't think so, Doc, because there's balance. The median day is a happy mix, you know, partly cloudy or partly sunny. Happimix? Yeah, I would support that as a word, but not as a drug brand name. Who do you work for anyway?

You know what, Doc? I will consider your opinion. You are a medical professional, Doc, but I am weather.
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Caregiver

Sure, if I'm drinking a bottle of warm bourbon out on the concrete patio while my roommate's great aunt sunbathes in her 50's era bikini, talking about soluble fiber or god knows what because a bead of sweat has defied gravity and found its way out of her leathery stomach wrinkles, taking with it my complete and undivided attention, I AM going to get that weepy, dippy, drippy, happy feeling. That's how I'm wired.

Sure, if I plant my tomatoes, my string beans, my carrots, my cucumbers, my bell peppers, my parsley, my oregano, my basil, my poppies, and my cilantro in the cracks in the hard-packed dirt behind the baseball diamond, I AM going to check for sprouts every day. That's my understanding of nature.

Don't fuck with me. I work in a nursing home.
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