Canvas
Flesh has withered
And yet its wearer now wants a tattoo.
What subject could possibly be a match
For such a crepey substrate?
“High-Waisted Giantess in Long Scarlet Skirt”
Will soon sleeve his left arm from wrist to shoulder.
a man named glass wrote a masterpiece of repetition
called einstein on the beach
it was a pioneering work of minimalism
and i was a mere 24 when I first heard it
and now at 71
with a head swimming against relentless tides
of loss of loss of memory of reduction of
capacity of loss of confidence of creeping
ache and risk of falling loss of a brother
of loss of flex and loss of piece after piece
of
loss
lost in the fog of a dimming awareness
loss of
uh
worthiness
groping for distraction
feeling like hal 9000 when his mind was torn away
piece by peace
like charlie gordon when his idiocy crept
back into his head
a guy named glass
whose first name i avoid
because i cant rember how many ells
that guy wrote an anthem
for the guy i relentlessly
becomb becomm because
become
“My brain is playing tricks on me”
We say. But, you know, the older we get,
The more body parts get involved
In the trickery. One trick stirs
Another. The skin
Decides we need new constellations
In the form of deflated-balloon skin tags, and
Then the hair, the skin’s epithelial partner,
Says “New fashion statement coming up:
Recessional Follies
Featuring Silverthread Sadie
And Thinny Minnie!”
Then the Gout Beast quiesces
For three days after that naughty McFlurry
Chased with three-sigar coffee,
And on the fourth day chooses a new home,
The Pinky-Toe joint, alchemizing humility
Into agony…
Whoa. What was I just saying?
My brain is laying bricks on me . . .
sorry if this disgusts
but many of us oldsters suffer
from undesired nasal cobwebs
and must either take tiny sharp scissors and carefully snip
(without a surgeon’s skill there will be pokery sufficient to induce tears)
or tweeze with tweezers
(yanking a subsector at a time. by the time you get that elusive last hair the tears are streaming)
or wax
(unsightly, unpleasant nose-pluggage with brown gunk on a popsicle stick)
or hands-only pinch and pull
(ineffective, painful or both)
.
so you look for that magical buzzwand device that is like a gentle weed-whacker and find one for only seven bucks and it works great for about a week and then doesn’t work worth a damn no matter how diligently you dig around up there and you think changing the battery might help but no
so you say the hell with it let nature take its course and before you know it you look like bruce dern in that movie where he was a cranky old man with seeming miniaturized tumbleweeds up his nose
and you keep your head down but then someone says chin up and you think ok dude you asked for it and your victim gasps and averts their eyes and then everyone else at work averts their eyes
and suddenly you are the quasimodo of the workplace
.
today I bought batteries for my new $24.99 grooming kit
here’s hoping that in 2025 the nosehair-removal state of the art has advanced
or they find a cure for senescent follicular misadventure
ps
“up your nose with a rubber hose” doesn’t work either
there’s a guy i know
who bought a quiche lorraine two days ago
and gloats that he still has half of it left
and thinks he’s deft
because pressing the microwave number one
renders it perfectly done.
.
there’s a guy i am
who feels like I am on the lam
from death herself
so food that’s disappearing from the shelf
is replaced by say oat bran and sardines
because i am learning what degenerative diabetes means.
.
the thing about devil-may-care
is that a metaphorical devil is really there
and what they care about is closing my account
by zeroing out the dwindling amount
of elan esprit de vivre vitality spark
and gearing down from drive
to neutral
to park.
.
one thing about old age
you can rail and weep and rage
pound your fist against the brick
but there’s brief daily ecstasy to be had when you awaken with a pulse and awareness and you hear the lovely affirmative sound of the internal odometer clicking itself another click.
gargoyle nails
i have old-man toes with gargoyle nails
that resist cutting by conventional means
toughened by fungus, rumor has it
the left big toe is discolored
and could probably stop a bullet
and i have to use a pliers-like device
that is like a small pair of bolt cutters
and only try for the first eighth-inch across
squeezing with all my mortal strength
till i get a SNAP!!
and then i can wedge the sharp edges in
and finish the job
.
upon reflection, it would make far better sense
if i soaked my toes in bathwater
and achieved hydrated softness–
they’d be a lot easier to cut, right?
.
why have i stupidly not-soaked my toes
for so long??
.
because i wander through my life in a daze
if not a semi-coma
but when i write poetry I am more mindful
.
bath time
long live poetry
wither, thou goest
all over my body
make crepe-scapes in skinfolds
and fishflesh so scroddy
thou growest in nostrils
a junglish forest
make innocent toenails
into quasimodos
make brown hair albino
put ground glass in elbows
install in the brain box
a dense fog machine;
we are walking freak shows
who live unto ninety
reward for unrecklessness:
age wreckfully–
but it beats oblivion
if we get coffee
so bring it on, Old Age,
i wither with glee.
every day comes accelerating proof/that i am or am becoming the cranky old man cliché/i made such cruel fun of in my youngsterhood.
why, just half an hour ago/when a young man lurked by the lobby door/that requires a key fob for entry/and wanted to use me to get in/i said “forgot your fob?”
“why no I don’t”–“you don’t live here??”
with a half-apologetic air he said “my girlfriend is asleep.”
“when i let someone i don’t know in, i feel like i am betraying my fellow residents.”
“I promise I’m not homeless or–“ “grrr. the POINT is not to put me in this position.” and walked away before he answered.
sure. i am not becoming a cranky old man. I am a cranky old man.
but my younger, cruel-fun self ought to be aSHAMED of himself.
pfui.
most of us/before we die/die down.
you can say dial-down if it makes you feel better./most of us are comforted/by some degree of euphemism. “die” in its various forms proves too//off-switchy.
this seventy-year old text-speaking to you/is dying down. his muscles do not bunch the way they did/and his brain shrinks. the fires of his youthful lust/are mere embers, glowing dimly./his skin withers and his hair/has lost pigmentation
but on the upside anxiety is down/braggadocio is down/vanity takes a back seat to sanity/and contentment is frequent
the die-down devalues hoopla/and prizes the warm glow of a comfortable conversation/and a restful nap? o my
“in seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy” said william blake
may you have a long, enjoyable winter, my listening friend/with underblanket warmth/and much hot soup and oatmeal and coffee/tea/chocolate
and then
let Spring follow
my mother started losing words/about four years before she died
“where is that…silver thiing?” she asked me/as i brought her sandwich/and salad with little jars/of extra virgin olive oil/and red wine vinegar/and exactly six lemon slices
by “silver thiing” she meant the tv remote/with which she accessed/her beloved “the price is right”/with host drew carey
she seemed to find her way/to and up the autistic spectrum/as she lost words and then concepts
and her pain was increasingly constant/and intolerable/yet it was still possible to draw laughter from her/till not long before she was gone
.
my older brother has begun to lose words
I have regarded him as my canary in a coal mine/and so this latest turn of life dismays
“i got this…thiing” he says
long pause
“dementia?”
“no not that…what’s the…other one?”
“alzheimer’s?”
“yeah that’s it”
.
i can’t find a word for how i feel
but a symbol will do
😦
One with Clay, Image and Text 