Time Elapsing

I 've only now gotten the computer back in the house after many weeks. I've been sick a couple of months and it's bad. Pancreatic cancer, liver cancer, both inoperable, untreatable, impenetrable. In hospital a few weeks, out of it now, a few weeks, in hospice now at home and totally weak. Don't know how much time is left, but it could be short. I suppose i'll be a bad writer from now on and a worse speller...

BP SATAN

And then one day British Petroleum decided that they would fuck the Universe and that no one could stop them or make them admit it or force them to pay with their lives for it. "Tough shit, America, we're a corporation with all the God-given rights that your stupid-ass corrupt politicians gave us!" Although the corporation is Satan, we'll never be able to do a fuckass thing about it!

I Hear From No One

I hear from no one much Or at least very seldom. Some send me their junk mail, Though it’s not clear if they don’t know the difference Or if it’s only that they think I won’t know it… I’ll read the first few words of anything, Though that don’t mean it doesn’t make me mad. There’s no longer any purpose in getting mad, though, Just as there is none in practicing indifference to one and all. I prowl the broken teeth and bones Of my array in the mirror And wish for more input in the soup, Though I’m expecting less. rcs. Current draft: 5/22/2010 Created on 5/20/2010 10:58 AM

Straight View

Can you cure me of what ails me Or cure the ailment of its attachment to myself? Is there any hope or spell for anyone I know Or just these strange straight views down long deserted roads? rcs. Current draft: 5/17/2010 Created on 5/17/2010 6:57 PM

The Pristine Blonde

I think she was a pristine girl Who went out into the world With many delusions and intentions, One of which was to sleep with Jews and Negroes To prove her liberality—whether to herself Or to the white-bread world she came from. I was never certain, but I’m certain that she thought so! Alas, that I was white and Protestant. rcs. Current draft: 5/20/2010 Created on 4/25/2010 10:54 AM

Grateful Or Not

Not one of my lovers Were ever much like me or even close, But for that I should be grateful. I should probably even roll over and play dead. Almost all those I loved, you see, were guilty In some small respect of things I’d never believe, Things I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever tolerate. Now that they are gone, I’ve reflected, find I was mistaken… I suppose it’s just that I’ve discovered and suffered for How I miss them, how hard it’s been to replace them, How feeble is my existence, growing old without their faces, Without those native traces, voices, and embraces to keep me. rcs. Current draft: 5/19/2010 Created on 5/15/2010 8:31 PM

Carmen Delzell (Opposites)

I hear the voice of an American woman living in Mexico. She speaks of her attachments to nature in a rural landscape With 2 burros, 9 dogs, and some chickens. She is immersed, it seems, Though she is also uncomfortable and lonely. She is similar—however opposite—to myself. Once in a while, she sees a truck drive down her dusty road, Whereas I live immersed in modern-life’s most unnatural world Where it’s always hard to see the stars And cars are always passing me by, And I am almost always uncomfortable in it. rcs. Current draft: 5/18/2010 Created on 5/15/2010 6:30 PM

Too Late

It’s getting too late to die young, So I’ll have to live with that— Though I cannot say how long.

Beautiful Day, My Ass

“It’s a beautiful day,” the house-painter said each morning as I went out, and it always seemed such garbage to me. I’m sure that sunny days must be of worth To those who work outdoors, But I don’t work and I’ve been sick so long, It doesn’t mean a rat’s-ass thing to me. rcs. Current draft: 5/4/2010 Created on 5/4/2010 1:36 PM

In The Flame

I don’t really care for living, I fear, But I’m incapable of facing death— Not the rope or the jolt or any drowning or the gun. There’s nothing to it, I am told, but I can’t get there. I just stay stuck here in the flame in dread and doubt And never leap for heart’s true beauty or go out. Now when I ache I don’t know what for, but only That there are few if any hearts that break for it. I can’t pretend to pray for it Or expect any other to see to it And fail myself to see that this old heart, when divulged, Is anything more than it ever was. Sad songs and movies Never used to make me weep Nor illness, age, or death, And I would as lief return there Where a grievous song was only a song And my heart among life’s beauties was ever mine to give. rcs. Current draft: 5/10/2010 Created on 5/5/2010 4:27 PM