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Automatic Transmission

she spit at me, repeatedly
about her split ends
brushing aside another reprise
of renal failure
she was always a top down kinda gal
so I drove to her funeral in a rented Cadillac
convertible, that failed to start after words
were said, so I left it for dead and hoofed it to
the nearest bar

A So Bad It’s Sinful Poem

So these still photos of three years olds
with covid
make me livid and have me thinking
What kind of limp ass deity would deal such a hand
to minors whose major misdeed is having too much
faith in Disney…Channel that …. And Whose The Leader
Of The Club

More Septuagenarian Prose Personate

I think my muse has been hesitant to hand hold my creative turns because it took over a year for me to accept that I actually made it…lived to see and be and having to deal with old age and subsequent senescent. Which is not to suggest that I’m comfortable with it all, at all.

But I’ve come to accept, have had to accept, that I beat some very long odds that I would not live to see my mid-fifties. Most of my buddies, my teenage peers, passed away decades ago in rice paddies, in prison, in alleys with a needle in their arm, or by their own hand in a SRO. They had nicknames like Cyclops, Oatmeal Cookie, Tree Monster, The 45, Peanut Butter, and I was PaperClip. We were all wards of the state. I’m the last of that crew.

Who knew?

See Ya.

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