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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4486 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Continued Whining of a Frightened Old Man Charles Levenstein Writing poems, living life, working work, unclear in which order of priority. I’m glad that spring has finally arrived: but always one foot in a ditch. Scattered dirt on my brother’s casket. Somewhere I have photos of the Levenstein boys, 4 of us, posed at every family gathering. Not funerals, though. Soon T. (not a Levenstein) will die of pancreatic cancer. Months waiting for the news. At Workers’ Memorial Day, R. broke down reciting the litany for the founder of modern H&S movement. I hate my colleagues and comrades, including tearful ones. I hate the prima donnas who expect my care; the phonies; the eternally youthful who need endless fathering. I am sick of saying I will be there for you. I will not be there for you. I will die like every other stupid bastard and You had better not drop the ball when I’m gone. Which is not to say that I am always right Or even frequently. I am desperate now to save what can be saved, to finish what must be done, to protect, to leave something that will not collapse if I turn my back. Oh shit. Too much attachment says The yogi. Oh damn the yogis. I won’t go to yogi heaven, I’ll be back as some yelping yellow cur with mange. Many lives to purge this beast, he likes to eat too much. This is not a cry for help. Help would be telling me which e-zines I should send my poems to. Should I make a website with exotic tunes and naked old men. In a jacuzi. With bubbles. No dying. |
