HOW LONG IS LOONEY?

If we live long enough

it’s gonna be rough.

Tell-tale signs of age

spoken off the cuff

betray us and oh

how long and how sad

will it get to be

before…until…we

write bad verse,  yet don’t hesitate

to remember to meditate

on what’s gone before and what

lies ahead instead?

Hey nonny nonny,

honey, if it’s not funny

why do we laugh at

our forget-me-nots?

When will we touch base

and head for home?

Not funny, dammit,

unless you’re like me–

easier to laugh

than it is to pee.

Ha ha got you there.

You expected to “cry.”

I know poor taste

when e’er I try

and will until my

looney runs dry.

Ouch! Tell me I

didn’t write this…

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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3 Responses to HOW LONG IS LOONEY?

  1. Bob Shepherd says:

    Great poem, Nan!!! One of the things about aging is that we see it all our lives in older people but never expect, somehow, that it will happen to us. Yesterday, I got out of bed and had a terrible pain in my ankle. Had to use a cane for the first time in my life, for half the day. One thing after another. But my take: it’s all good, all part of the experience of living a life.

    Like

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