And Here’s The 39th: my imperfect self

doggie in profile
Irish – May 2017

Well, it was May and I had sat here for maybe a minute and a half enjoying the birds at the feeder before the squirrel found it and hence began the squirrel wars. Enjoying the gymnastics was Irish’s new favourite thing, and my obsession, as I tried to prevent it, and at this point I had as well begun to insert my particular slant on the show that was unravelling down yonder south of the 49th parallel, and not for the first time was thankful my father was a dickwad back in the day and the reason we all ended up here, in Canada.  

Speaking of rats, apparently the orange one of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue knows less about the Civil War in the U.S. than I do, and that is quite a feat. Frankly, I wonder if maybe that’s why his supporters love him so much? eh? Cause he makes them feel smart? […] His ignorance is a feature, not a fault.

Tree Rats And Other Nonsense
May 02, 2017

In time, I gave up and decided that I took no pleasure in watching the squirrel hanging precariously from whatever clever contraption I’d rigged up to prevent the mastermind mammal from doing what he (if you look closely you will see this one was a he) was doing, and the last remaining seeds still sit at the door in a bag.

So instead now I sit in my little nook and gaze at the leafless Black Walnut outside my window, today against at a dull white sky.

I find sometimes that words fly into my mind, and always as I’m, like, on my bike and have no way of writing them down. But, maybe the bike is kind of a mind dump, as thoughts come and go so quickly, and forgotten as soon as the ride ends and I’m home, or off to work, and maybe that’s good as only the tenacious words, ideas, whatever are what I keep, the ones that come back around. 

This must be, I think, one of the few drafted poems as haven’t gone through all of them, YET, but it must be. Generally, I don’t draft poems for long, it sort of surprised me when I came upon this one, so I had to take a look at what I had I posted instead, but no poems.

And that man down yonder seeped in, again and again, until he overtook me until this challenge came along, and hopefully, I can again capture some words and make them into a poem. Poems can say more in 20 words that 1400 words can never say, and with feeling, and raw, not all cooked up in fancy metaphors, like that dickwad mammal became. The exceptional incompetence of one mammal in comparison to the other makes little room for poems. 

From May 21, 2017

to be
is to stand still
in one place
with the taste of blandness
without spice
afraid to dive into
the deep, dark waters
of life
denying of pleasure
of standing in the dark
risking illusions and metaphors
that fall
into the cracks
and risking
for a taste
of that divine
imperfect self.

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