Reblog Mar 4 for D’Verse–Sorry, I give up

(The tune of Help Me Make It Thru the Night was running thru my mind)

I CAN’T

I can’t play hopscotch any more

Nor skate across an icy floor.

I know headstands would break my neck

I drove my car and caused a wreck.

 

It’s hard to write a funny verse

‘specially when you’re glum and terse.

I wonder if  I’ll ever see

A poem that’s sadder than my knee.

 

Oh I know it could be much worse—

I could have Trumpkin as my nurse,

Pointing at me and saying he

Would never make a pass at me.

 

BUT

Now I don’t have to clean my plate

Or remember to stand up straight

Oh what fun to say shit and damn

While chasing Mary’s little lamb.

 

Yet no one tucks me in at night

Or hugs me as my mother might.

Home made peach ice cream’s the best

I’d not swap it for all the rest.

 

I STILL KNOW

Little orphan Annie can say

Watch out for the Goblins today

They’re bigger than ever

And terribly clever—

 

Citizens United foretold

The capitalist manifold

That can squeeze you to death,

Smirking with glee at your last breath.

 

I guess there’s a Devil after all

Call him a Goblin, you say?

But the evil’s outrageous,

And it’s even contagious!

 

GOOD LUCK

For the next century—

I’m outta here.

 

JUST JOKING

Though not very funny, I guess

The whole thing’s a horrible mess.

Oh I’m moved now to barf

Do watch out for my scarf.

 

NEXT SCENE

Maybe it’ll be better after

My next round trip down home.

I’ll be pushing up sod

Only second to God

You watch; I’ll be back.

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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