Thursday guitar practice seemed like it was slightly less painful for my thumb than it has been. Hopefully it’s not my imagination and the slice is healing.
I needed more fruit for
my hungry fast but I only had about $23.00 and I didn’t want to take anything
out of the bank until I was sure that my social services cheque was going add
to what I had and make enough to pay for my rent and phone. I decided to take
the two large bags full of beer cans that have been sitting here for months to
the Beer Store to cash them in. I got $5.80 then rode up Brock and up the next
street to Dufferin and turned south. I wanted to take the next left so I looked
behind me and saw that I had time to get into the middle lane. After I’d done
that a car blared angrily at me from behind and then with even more venom,
gunned his engine and swerved past me on the right side. I guess I could have
mistimed my lane change but it seemed to me I hadn’t.
I picked up grapes, a
package of Red Prince apples, avocadoes, vine tomatoes and two large jugs of
Simply Orange because they were on sale for $4.00 each. The express checkout
was free but it was piloted by this cashier that I don’t like. I don’t know why
I don’t like her. She’s never done anything to me to warrant my feeling but I
find her manner annoying. She is so robotic and superficial in the way that she
says loudly to each and every person in the exact same tone every time, “Hello
how are you?” and you know she doesn’t really want to know how you are. Of
course they all say “hi” and sometimes “how are you” but it doesn’t sound as
fake. She may very well be the nicest person that one could possibly get to
know but her chemistry just rubs me the wrong way.
On the way back I
almost got doored by a young guy getting out of a cab. He was wearing bright red lipstick though he
wasn’t in drag and when he said, “Sorry friend!” I just told him to look back.
I finished my poem, “My
Mind Whispers Blindly”. I now have thirteen pages of poetry in my manuscript
for the final project but I still need nine more.
of satisfaction but rather left
herself open to being swept away
as a piece of the machinery
in the vibrator of Mother Nature. She
rode the orgasm of situation
all flux, as she was a victim of fate
waiting patiently for her promotion
to destiny. To her, being raped
while making her way home from a night
club was no different from being caught in a rain
storm. Hers was an indiscretionary
hedonism with a mutated coat
of many Buddhas thrown over it.
She had the stuff to be a guru
when she wasn’t like a crumpled poem
found on the streetcar or on the curb side
on garbage night. She was beautiful
enough to get away with it
and she wasn’t crazy but was good theatre
because she didn’t know how to act
and so people always paid her since
there is nothing quite as mysterious
as a person that refuses
to conceal that she has no plans
and so others made plans for her. She
never landed on an orgasm
although her pleasures mounted so much higher
than the average climax she had one
gee spotless reputation
and was so passive that she would fuck any
body for nothing. But women don’t seem to
flirt with madness as successfully as men,
meaning they tend to need a handle
to handle insanity, like Jesus
or democracy or else they lose
their way. My mind whispers blindly
a hallucination of her
has been delivered to my head without
the usual condom, because I am
no one if I don’t display the blind
contours that illuminate the wonder
of animal magnets that don’t
need a leash but merely a polisher for their poles.
My wounded heart needs nourishment in sweet dreamland
so that’s where I’m going and won’t be back.
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