title

 it's been a long time since i wrote in the morning

been a long time since i wrote

anything. this position keeps me in pain

and still feel the need to eliminate

even tho even tho i can't talk about anything else.

i don't wanna talk about why i'm sick.

but i guess my writing's always been about pain.

so let me lay it down.

i'm caring for, but not caring about, a grandkid.

i wanted to keep myself from that boomer amerikkan role

but i fell in love with a man who has a daughter

who had a kid then went crazy and decided she

can't be a mom. i think she decided that 

tho decisions are not her strong point. 

it doesn't matter the state

decided for her, she needs to improve. they took him

and gave him to poppa. and me.  i don't want to be

in this position.  driving him to preschool 3 days a week

really fucks with my elimination routine, and i don't know

if it's this or the baloon that doc pumped my guts with

but i am in pain so much that to try to put my fingers

on the keyboards most mornings just results in a less

articulate aaaargh than i'm putting out now.

life is becoming more and more about letting go

of things i cannot do. about releasing the guilt.

k my floor is disgusting and the laundry stinks

but i only got so much energy and most of it

is going to quelling the pain that is my ass. 

***

bless you blogger for the white space

******

i don't want to confront the truth

my life feels devoid of all but pain.

like it's the only thing i can respond to anymore.

words don't seem to want to escape.

i keep my own council as often as possible.

how did we make the pain be so poetical?

this is not something i can metaphor out

plus fb stole META and now i'm praying

 for end times.

&

since it's sunday,, perhaps a li'l

communion with the pot gods will work.

using writing as therapy seems to be less

effective when i can't do poetry and it comes to me

how i called myself a chameleon but actually 

am a thief and i've said that too.

if there's no new thoughts and no new ways

to express the same old thing 

then what's the point of doing art? 

however i'm not about points

i'm about what makes the day 

and some of them just 

too many of them

are not worth living.

whence comes the suicide ideation

but frankly i'm super scared of death

because the only thing i know of it

is that we cease and the manner of demise

is my most fearful contemplation.

the promise of heaven does not entice me

the promise of hell does not deter me

promises in general are wishes and atm

i wish for painlessness.

which it seems death 

should accomplish.

but getting there to me

would seem to demand the most

exsquisite pain because of the fear i have

so lets work thru that shall we?

why are you scared of death?

the unknown.

the apparent ceasing of

which i feel as a truth i can almost accept

is a simple ego trip.

when you know you are god....

but then the elephant....

ahhhh so you are scared you will not be remembered?

that I will not remember me.

what have i done that deserves that anyway?

i'm not noticable now why would these profane days

of this my life be recallable? hell, my own pings are faint.

if what we are is a giant nueral network. giant. lol

what a puny word. anyway metafiction helps. 

if what we are is an infinite nueral network burst into being

self driven and alone 

fractured and combined

left hand ignorant of right

dimensions of existence beyond 

comprehension despite the bose einstein

constant's portrait in the anals of internet

(tail of an elephant trunk of an aardvark)

()()()()(

if what we are is that

the puniness is infinite.

the idea of remembrance

laughable,  a chuckle from grandpa.

the computer glitches.

i dropped it on its head six months ago

and it goes into a fugue state.

thank you blogger for not losing

my errata. i just heard a crow 

and it reminds me how i want a smoke

and how i could take this machine

outside and have one 

on my porch.

the live oak across the back yard

on the neighbor's front yard

hold 2 crows. one is speaking

short sharp bark of song, raw hello.

hey hey just annoucing itself.

a car horn in the distance alarming'and no one ntices

some amen brothas from the scattered 

fragments talking amongst themself 

and i demand translation.

mainly saying feed me.

()()

it is my unfortunate position

that one must work for their supper.

this is a puritan ethic instilled

by desire to survive on no one but self.

and community of self because self = all.

and the crows disperse.

no longer in my sight

wild parrots scretch by

a mocking bird sings

chatter of seagull

my ass hurts.

()()(

so immortality's got me thinkin

if i describe myself perfectly preserved

in this moment carried on bits and bytes 

to the cloud where is the cloud what happens

mutherfuckers

to clouds?

and all that non sense.

papyrus has survived thousands of years

carved stone-tens of thousands.

the internet cloud

ephemeral as we.

if only AI survives........................................................

&

the crows are back.

when i was a poet they spoke to me

now that i'm a woman they are flowers

for algernon.

*(

i should check on the boy

because to take on the responsibility

of care is to do the maximum

in your ability to help that person thrive.

i did not want this but couldn't walk away.

i have to learn to love it? i don't want to

it's torture. it's not. that's the way you're viewing it

from the perspective of who you were turning into-

an old tired lady, working for the benefit of others.

oh, yeah that's what you are.

oh yeah

i am.

but what would you do instead? meditate 

on your aches without writing a word?