"How do I look?"-- David Carradine
It does not matter to my bowels, in this humidity, barely eating enough for two meals in 72 hours, I am skid marked, no matter what care I take, jock cripple or not, however long I have lived with incontinence, whatever methods Dr. Sloane attempted, and he fed me a cartel's envy, I now have nearly continuous pain in my gut, and how much more can I continue to rise above it with stoicism? I hate Niume.com, and I know it is an unfair emotion, but they shouldn't have courted me in an attempt to save themselves. Yet my eulogy to David through his father bore fruit out of it, and I'm writing myself to death, because I know it's over, and it isn't that complex that I'm haunted by a man whose heyday was forged in my impressionable years, that he and I both would become antagonistic to Kwai Chang Caine.
This man is the ghost of a love waylaid, and I have to relearn how to embed video, arching and tossing on a mattress long delayed for the incinerator, we will the dead back to life. No one is putting me away, no one. Let's take five.
No comments:
Post a Comment