(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.

…you were about to die and were overpowered by a great need to get everything inside expressed in a hurry?  I’m not worried about the dying, but about not squeezing everything out first.  I find myself making several collages at the same time,  re-starting my genealogy program, editing another video of years past and writing here.  Wait, wait…I want to tell you something else…

It’s a “poor me” post.  I don’t like those myself. In the therapy group I was in (as a participant) we would always begin the meeting by describing how we feel, while acknowledging that most of us feel several different ways at the same time. I’m shedding a tear or two for me, which isn’t usual these days, so I know I’m feeling sad.  I feel like I’m  a number of uncooked hard peas on a flat plastic platter. The slightest tilt and I roll one way and then another, not falling entirely off the platter, but shifting off center  time and again.  I shouldn’t have told bloggers I’m old. No one wants to be tainted by old, but I’m still loyal to truth, or what seems to be truth.  I’m lonely and avoidant, not a happy combination.

I don’t want to fall into criticizing myself–I do enough of that. I write but realize that I can’t talk about what matters. I don’t know if that was always true.  Years ago I decided I won’t ever commit suicide. That frees me up not to even consider it.  Guess I’ll get back to my Ann Perry book.  The image above is my current screen saver.  Google says it’s from the brickwork site, but I got it by going to wood collages.  The tot was from an innocent world.

Lance Dodes: Mr. Trump has a long history that proves his diagnosis. If you consider the 7 traits that define Antisocial Personality Disorder in the DSM-5, he meets every one of them:

1. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors.
2. Deceitfulness, as indicated by repeated lying … or conning others for personal profit or pleasure
3. Impulsivity or failure to plan ahead
4. Irritability and aggressiveness
5. Reckless disregard for safety of self or others.
6. Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior or honor financial obligations
7. Lack of remorse, as indicated by being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another.