[from a Diary entry 20 March 1970)
It's spring days like these,
Fresh and full and suddenly long,
That make you want to embrace the world.
But the world is so distant, so large,
So you turn to embrace your woman.
And there isn't one.
So you play the pintable all day long.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
12:19:04 The Days are just packed
26:03:03
No point in trying to fill in the blanks since the last time, at least not now. I thought I had run out of tickets, and I may well have done so in a meaningful way, but inspired by a night home alone to come (its 16.45) and the fact that it is (probably – brain black spot, this) Bill’s birthday, I thought I’d check the stash, and Lo! Two of the buggers, of great age and unknown provenance.
So I neck one with no hesitation, and not much faith in a result, and go off for the ritual cleansing, nobly forgetting I’m due to be up early to visit [my therapist].
* * *
The circus is back in town, but the tigers are tired and the clowns can’t seem to crack wise.(Bizarrely, I’d rather dance.)
The whip’s lost its crack, the white horse is black, and the elephant pooped in the pies.
Remember the golden rule; if you can actually wonder whether or not you are tripping, you almost certainly aren’t. But maybe grass and guarana will provide an adequate simulacrum.
* * *
A note says: PATGOD [ie chapter 7 of TWITW] Masters = Pan
If only.
Playing with parentheses; is this a symptom? It might be in a less chronically punctuational a patient (no man then), but I sometimes [often] do this when I’m just working up a sweat. I ain’t no fucking lightweight. I can cane it or leave it alone. Sometimes it’s Hemingway, every comma a concession. Then it’s tottering edifices of {inter}dependent clauses girdered for bear, bellying and sweating and cursing, snorting for escape into the sunnier uplands where the colon roams and ampersands spring from noun to noun, yet forced to circle forever in the …
[syntactical crash and collapse]
* * *
‘You sound like you’ve seen the Promised Land.’‘Seen it? I’m looking at it right now.’
* * *
…dubious gloaming of umbrous question marks...* * *
Something uniquely grounding about a bellyful of vegetable curry, though the added chillies bring fire, water and – later, doubtless, air – to the elemental party.Speaking of which; there’s nothing about a one man party when the one man is as fascinating as this particular party, yessirree Bob Dobbs, ahoy there skipper, etc., mumbumbles to a stop
* * *
…such as those that occur over such conundra as whether half-wits have semi-colons, or who won the Apos Trophy in (kindly leave the stage, in fact, all of you, out of here this minute, this sentence is going to blow...* * *
So what now at eight o’clock? More music, more drugs, more lying down? Nah, done that. A picture show would be nice. And I’d better set the video. Even my pupils can’t quite seem to make up their mind.We can only have our own enlightenment.
Whoever hawks illumination (save for Mr Mazda and the equally blameless filament-flogging hordes who should accept their exemption from this argument with equanimity) does not have the precious quality he seeks to sell...
Black mocha coffee, dark bitter chocolate, marzipan; it’s been said before, but Mmmm. And a little light hashish to coat the throat with smoky-sweet lemon-biscuit-flavoured phlegm. There’ll be good hacking in the morning.
{How many of the real peak experiences of my life haven’t involved acid? Wedding day. St Hotspur’s Day. First (and only first) love. all that comes to mind, and goes}
Must go and programme the video. (subliminal subtext. Not only can I set the video, a rare talent in anyone over 40, but I can even do when flagrantly intoxicated and full of the wild roister)
And, having done that, must go and lie down – I’ve over-eaten.
No sweeter feeling/
than simply /
giving in.
Smooth as butter. Rich as silk. Grease stains.
* * *
…or perhaps not…* * *
Loud sound in an enclosed space can raise the temperature. Just me and the music and the ghosts it evokes. It’s crowded in here. And no refuge in the kitchen. Unless you count washing up as a refuge. Doesn’t ring my bath, that’s foreshore. Typical, always beaching.Yesterday [name of male friend censored], recently and, with all fond hope, permanently sundered from [name of male friend's inamorata] on the brink of a disastrous matrimony, explained over the roast beef how he has taken up rowing (he first got into it after going to the rowing club to book their facitilities for the aforementioned narrowly avoided triumph of Romantic nonsense over good counsel). ‘Typical,’ I said. ‘No sooner does his relationship break up than he’s messing about with oars.’
Hotcha.
* * *
…oh bugger (noises off).
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
back again
neglected recently owing to debt, depression, decrepitude and several other words beginning with D; the deep dark dungeons of deadly despair (hiya, hawkmoth)
Here's an image I found while rummaging through some old transparencies last night; for reasons I'm finding difficult to articulate to myself, I found it very heartening.
Image lost in the mists of photobucket
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Monday, 10 January 2011
Memory Leaks
I’ve had memory leaks all my adult life. I use the phrase (which I may have stolen from someone) to describe sudden and momentary dislocations of consciousness, when I am struck by a single image from my past that is accompanied by an emotional force that can stop me in my tracks, but which generally fades as quickly as a dream under assault from an alarm clock, leaving just an impression, an aftertaste.
I’m not talking about memories of peak experiences, those moments of epiphany, ecstacy or loving tenderness that anyone would treasure, or the times of embarrassment, ugliness and despair that we would rather not remember at all, but that sometimes force themselves into consciousness. The impressions I am left with are of mundane days and places, of walking down a road, entering a house, standing in a shop, sitting in an armchair watching the rain run down the window; specific, recognisable places and people and situations, but with nothing to mark them out from the other inconsequential quotidian moments that form the bulk of everyone’s lives.
When I read Slaughterhouse 5, I was struck by Billy Pilgrim’s coming ‘unstuck in time’. Perhaps this was what was happening to me, I though. I had drifted into my past life for some time, then returned a second or less after I left: the pang I felt was a sweet distillation of all the feelings I had experienced in that time, the impression merely the last thing I had experienced before I snapped back to the present.
Later, I flirted with the idea of backwards causality, that the reason these humdrum moments from the past were freighted with specialness was precisely because they would zap me in the future, lending a tinge of epiphany to the everyday; the more times a particular moment came back, the more intense the feeling. Suppose, I thought, that rather than the steady gradient or parabola usually employed to map out the passing of a lifetime, it was instead a squiggly scribble, the ravelled aftermath of a cosmic kitten pouncing on the unspooling thread. Perhaps these moments were nodes and knots in the general tangle.
Anyway, that’s by the by. I’m writing this now because I’ve had many of them over the past few weeks, bouncing me back into my past so often that yesterday I spent hours on Google Earth tracking down and looking at virtually every house I’d ever lived in, or even, at times, at the empty ground where they used to be, streets I had walked and the parks I had played in, looking for some clue to my psychic geography in the comfort of maps.
It’s possible that this increased frequency has something to do with the arrival and dispatch of the Xmas hashish, but to suggest that this is the sole cause not only insults my poetic, Romantic and self-mythologising sensibilities, but also too simplistic. I had memory leaks before I ever smoked anything, and in the last forty years of being an on and off dope fiend I’ve never noticed any particular correlation.
What led me to post this is a thought I had walking up the hill through the village, a swirl of fine rain, rivulets of red earth trickling from the front gardens of the cottages on the hill {oh, and then, as I wrote that, another leak, of walking on the very edge of the pavement an my way to my junior school along Philip Lane in Tottenham, fascinated by the way water was running through the gutters, eroding and making valleys in what I assume now must have been builder’s sand, shaping and reshaping, making shifting patterns; the accompanying feeling, an incongruous melancholy}. I’ve often heard it said that people’s lives flash before them before they die (although how do those who say this actually know?), not so much a leak as a dam burst of memory, a flood that scours the landscape and carries away all traces of life and industry. What if these memory leaks are a harbinger of this event, and their increased frequency an indication of its proximity?
Maybe it’s time to head for the higher ground.
I’m not talking about memories of peak experiences, those moments of epiphany, ecstacy or loving tenderness that anyone would treasure, or the times of embarrassment, ugliness and despair that we would rather not remember at all, but that sometimes force themselves into consciousness. The impressions I am left with are of mundane days and places, of walking down a road, entering a house, standing in a shop, sitting in an armchair watching the rain run down the window; specific, recognisable places and people and situations, but with nothing to mark them out from the other inconsequential quotidian moments that form the bulk of everyone’s lives.
When I read Slaughterhouse 5, I was struck by Billy Pilgrim’s coming ‘unstuck in time’. Perhaps this was what was happening to me, I though. I had drifted into my past life for some time, then returned a second or less after I left: the pang I felt was a sweet distillation of all the feelings I had experienced in that time, the impression merely the last thing I had experienced before I snapped back to the present.
Later, I flirted with the idea of backwards causality, that the reason these humdrum moments from the past were freighted with specialness was precisely because they would zap me in the future, lending a tinge of epiphany to the everyday; the more times a particular moment came back, the more intense the feeling. Suppose, I thought, that rather than the steady gradient or parabola usually employed to map out the passing of a lifetime, it was instead a squiggly scribble, the ravelled aftermath of a cosmic kitten pouncing on the unspooling thread. Perhaps these moments were nodes and knots in the general tangle.
Anyway, that’s by the by. I’m writing this now because I’ve had many of them over the past few weeks, bouncing me back into my past so often that yesterday I spent hours on Google Earth tracking down and looking at virtually every house I’d ever lived in, or even, at times, at the empty ground where they used to be, streets I had walked and the parks I had played in, looking for some clue to my psychic geography in the comfort of maps.
It’s possible that this increased frequency has something to do with the arrival and dispatch of the Xmas hashish, but to suggest that this is the sole cause not only insults my poetic, Romantic and self-mythologising sensibilities, but also too simplistic. I had memory leaks before I ever smoked anything, and in the last forty years of being an on and off dope fiend I’ve never noticed any particular correlation.
What led me to post this is a thought I had walking up the hill through the village, a swirl of fine rain, rivulets of red earth trickling from the front gardens of the cottages on the hill {oh, and then, as I wrote that, another leak, of walking on the very edge of the pavement an my way to my junior school along Philip Lane in Tottenham, fascinated by the way water was running through the gutters, eroding and making valleys in what I assume now must have been builder’s sand, shaping and reshaping, making shifting patterns; the accompanying feeling, an incongruous melancholy}. I’ve often heard it said that people’s lives flash before them before they die (although how do those who say this actually know?), not so much a leak as a dam burst of memory, a flood that scours the landscape and carries away all traces of life and industry. What if these memory leaks are a harbinger of this event, and their increased frequency an indication of its proximity?
Maybe it’s time to head for the higher ground.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
12:19:04 a day within
26:01:97
Welcome to the (absolute) show(er) that never (?) ends, now in its 27th great year.This one’s unexpected. Came home from work on Thursday to find a missive from Brother Billy (to whom this is thereby and therefore dedicated) containing a single strawberry, best wishes for the weekend and the assertion that he will be with me in spirit, if not in corpo(or any other sort of)reality. This alerted me to the fact that said weekend contained (today in fact!) Superbowl Sunday (somehow I had temporarily forgotten), so despite the facts that I had only brought home enough blow to last until, well, today; that I have not had more than six hours sleep in a night for close to a week (circumstances and sick wife – some kind of hell virus that sequentially agonizes various joints, arthritis on a Cook’s tour); that, as ever, I’ve got pressing work to do on the morrow; and that it was less than an hour ago that I had lunch (Arbroath smokie and chicory/coriander/cress salad): despite all that , I’m about to hatch the whole fruit (yes, its 2:50 and I’m actually straight(ish – a few sucks on twigs and tar have added a pleasant skew to everything except my throat). Can you tell?
* * *
& can you tell the difference now at 5.25, dog walked as I photographed filigrees against a satin sky flavoured with Fruit Salads. Return to feed dog in dismemberments of warm oozy chickens, half-time roundup with Alan, Jimmy and an embalmed-looking Des. Don’t you notice what remarkably ill-shaped skulls people have under these circumstances?The wife’s been in. “What are you doing?
“Working.”
She peers, her features taking on the simulacrum of peevishness without the thought of such a thing ever clouding her eyes, at these words forming on the screen.
“Real work.” I offer elaboratively, “not Work Work. Art.”
And at the utterance of the Word the whole universe hushes and trembles at the next move of my fingertips.
Snap!
that’s better..
The football continues downstairs, the dog, upstairs.
Having checked the score, to find that in 20 minutes Chelsea have turned 0-2 to 3-2, perhaps I’d better go and watch it
* * *
l8:05. Chelsea won 4-2. Why aren’t I listening to music?* * *
18:45 I am now. 40 minutes of twiching and mild disatisfaction (probably that I had a few false starts in the music) that seemed like months but weren’t particularly unpleasant. I’ve got 45 minutes before I have to cook, but I have to eat too and I’ve had the good sense to set the Olivia Tremor Control on automatic pilot in the hope that it’ll carry me out of this giddy sentence into the calmer waters of This one; dearie me, I do appear to be remarkably intoxicated.
* * *
19:15 (seems longer) And for the second time I have been driven from my living room by a Scottish preacher twiddling twaddle on the TV. Everywhere I sit I should be somewhere else. I’m missing everything including what’s in front of me, in my desperate frenzy to seize the limited time available and throttle the juice from it. And in 15 minutes I must cook sausages! That’s the wurst joke I ever heard. And we’re still on track 7. Joy to the CD. No more where-the-fuck-are-we-adrift-in-this-seamless-symphonic-soup? worries with our dear friend Digital Display.
But you still have to stand up if you want to dance.
* * *
And you know what:? (20:30) I had to eat. After all, cooking is an art, too, which Chip so graciously acknowledged. And the pause button holds the soundtrack. This may well be the last leg. Food anchors, of course, and six hours in (I always start to get anthropological about my experience at about this stage) everything kind of abates anyway – and I’m drinking (very weak) coffee – (so weak that I had to go and make some more for the wife, then confusingly write what appears here subsequently, before reappearing to take up the thread in the middle of this hiatus). And while I was away, this is what I saw –Wild-eyed, ragged and gaunt, I leered vulnerably (a difficult trick - the key’s in the eyes) into the bathroom mirror.
And grinned
* * *
20:55 Doesn’t it, though. No laughs without Stan and Ollie. At least, not out loud. (a reflection on lonely dripping)Still, why worry when you can stay at home and be terrified by the stereo of your choice. Track 16 burns its way in then 17 explodes out again, 18 mumbles awhile in a dank corner then oh God here comes number 19 (meaningless without soundtrack, I suppose, but then again, isn’t everything?).
And to think, earlier this week I was planning to write to Fortean Times about the remarkable replicating rabbit mystery
But I didn’t. Oh well
And this is the sort of insight for which I have mortgaged a couple of days of my immediate future? I’m just wasting time, waiting for the airplane, listening to the birds and the languid dripping of – well, fluid, one has to say (It’s even easier with the lights out). I travel speedily past the openings of beguiling corridors, but I can’t turn the steering wheel on my Zimmer,
Follow the Glimmer
of an idea
Oh god here comes the airplane. Sing, birdies, sing!
Wake up
Oh God, I think I understand Green Typewriters.
Does this mean I have been Recruited? I don’t want a head full of prawns. I never should have turned out the lights.
One of these days I’m actually going to have to read this fucking thing, rather than just scrolling through it, but such a scroll does bring me to ponder on what happened to Superbowl Sunday last year. Suddenly sagging spirits and energy. More drugs needed.
* * *
9:40 If you need to look at your parents in a different light, try painting them a different colour.In the picture I look horribly like Charles Windsor. Mum does a passable po-faced Queen but my father looks like he knew what it was to be a trapped spirit. A body that would not dance, an awkwardness and gawk in every mirror bar the reflections in my mother’s perspex specs. You have to acknowledge the absurdity to appreciate the beauty. I wish he was here so I could tell him.
{those black and white images give an achingly insufficient resonance of the way that typing them caused me to dissolve in sobs and outwelterings of snot (I may be sickening for something but it’s equally possible something important and even developmental may have happened back there).
Run away!}
No.
{A further explan(complic)ation. The Picture I started off describing, which I had been recolouring in pastels and guilty intensity, was not the one that moved and connected me with my dad [who knew he was a bit of a geek, but didnt’ care because people loved him and he had a fine wit. Except that this is sentiment, not passion now. Stop it] was at a Granger-side wedding – Brian’s or Pat’s – with Kate & Ivy (ever intertwined those names) off to one side, mum in the centre still young in her eyes, dad’s leaning forward eager, slick-back hair, grinning (rather like Mike S or Idiot), rumpling the V-neck jumper he wears with (beat) best suit, shiny tie windsor knot, work-marked hands cradling a lazy dimp, limp Bacofoiled carnation in his buttonhole, and behind them there’s a row of fire buckets (and you know that the O of my mum’s mouth is here opening it to complain about that very fact) but he doesn’t care, he knows it’s all absurd, and sad, and that there are wonders out there, but maybe not for him {and even if he doesn’t know that, I do, and that’s what hurts}, but you’ve just
GOT to laugh.
* * *
22:50 A change of venue hasn’t exactly upped the word count. Now in the living room, avoiding the build-up to the Superbowl by gawping at Melvyn ‘of all people’ Bragg’s vision of American cultural colonization of post-war English youth. Been there, done that, worn the yoke.Somehow, I have contrived to become (as Mr Woof, the human Setter, expatiates on screen) thoroughgoingly enraptured. or possibly stoned.
* * *
“One, two, three! Dominate Let’s go!” Looks like the Packers are getting fired up. Now there’s an idea.
But obviously not an imperative one, as I remain nailed to the sofa. A fat man – Lutheran Van Dross to the life and larger – sings a soul version of the Stars and Stripes. We must be in New Orleans but this time (obscurely) with George on our minds.
Sooner or later I’m going to have to eat something, or at least have a drink. Chip’s fallen asleep on the other sofa, despite the best efforts of the Crass Empire to impress us.
She doesn’t even stir when Favre throws a 54-yard touchdown with his first play. “That’ll settle ya down.”
* * *
11:50, but more to the point, 10-7, and I’m engrossed. Here we go again.The puss is suddenly on the move, exploring her way up the north face of the slumbering Mummy. Watch out for avalanches.
14-10, and suddenly the most unexpceted of all pleasures on this day of many looms – could we actually have a great game to watch? We’re still in the first quarter.
* * *
The Patriots have got a killer defender called Brewski (sounds like) in a homage to Cheers, and Tallulah has draped herself along and over the wife’s hip, moulding herself in lazy French curves.In a natural break, The Sky at Night. Now there’s a rich source of mis-shapen skulls (“Astronomers have affectionately come to call it “The Monster” and apparently it’s at the centre of our galaxy).
* * *
12:15, first quarter’s over, the wife’s evicted the cat, I’ve walked the dog, I need a slash, I’ve had an apple and the Packers have just got another huge touchdown and I still need a pee.* * *
1:20 and this is in the nature of a postscript, really; 27-14 Packers at the half, I’ve got a huge owl of bopcorn (could that be one of the most serendipitious typos I ever buttered) and they’re still not playing football on Channel 4. Oh, now they are.Howcum they sell popping corn in health food stores. Organic or not, surely something this simple and this good must be deadly? Well, salt and butter are, (un)naturally.
27-21 Meanwhile, on BBC2, it’s Zabriskie Point. Bang. Seen it before, didn’t understand it then, don’t give a shite.
Desmond Howard returns a kick-off 99 yards. 35-21.
Chip went to bed at one, the puss went out around midnight, and now Sallywags slumbers on the sofa. Unfortunately, that’s where I want to sleep, and at 2:30 the hour is approaching fast. Though I really must defrost the cat first.
And now, at three, dislodge the dog, and pull the switch.
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
Monday, 13 December 2010
Thursday, 9 December 2010
12:19:04 an introduction
Anyway, when I started writing a diary I had been drunk just once in my life (during the week I spent in a Thomas Hardy novel - I’ll get around to that one day), and, although it was the ’60s and I was an undergraduate at a trendy university I had never even seen an illegal substance, let alone taken one.
And then, staying on at college to do a PhD, I fell in with a good crowd and all kinds of possibilities opened up to me, and I dumped sociology for socialising and went from being a nerdish innocent to a nerdish drug-addled innocent in a couple of years.
I was still scribbling away through all this (this is not self-deprecation; i had no typewriter – it had disappeared due to the aforementioned week I spent in a Thos Hardy novel – and my handwriting was barely legible at the best of times) and became very interested in writing my diary while under the influence of whatever was around, and particularly LSD, my chosen poison.
The problem was that the very act of writing became problematic, as my head fell towards the page and I became lost in the sinuous movements of the pen, the uneven bleeding of the ink, the way the ghosts of letters on the other side of the page showed through and miscegenated outrageously with the current flow; my brain was generating a thousand smiles a minute and my hand was lumbering to form an ‘s’ that did not rear up, hooded, to strike.
So I did not manage to write much.
Anyway, as years went on, and I continued down the road to excess (even though I realised, even then, that if a road led to the palace of wisdom, it also led from it, and I had no idea which direction I was facing – usually flat on my back gawping at the sky or face down on the ground), I also spent a surreal six months at secretarial college, and learned to type with zip, and found that I could at last – especially when my mad skillz were allied to electronic keyboards – keep up, to some extent, with the fizzing and popping of neural pathways.
By this time I had cut down on my trips to Dizzyland – the tickets were hard to come by – but I started on a project I called 12:19:04, my acid diary. It wasn’t that I thought I could accurately nail what it was like – no communication between the aethyrs as the wise men say – but one of the remarkable things I’d found about taking acid was that, on entering the difference, the last trip, no matter how long ago it had been taken, was like the day before, and the memories appropriately fresh and vivid, even though they had been lost to straighthood in the time intervening. As a result, the writing became, in effect, a daily diary.
So, one day at a time, they will start appearing here*, minimally edited and thus often incoherent, so that their Joycean wordplay, fidgety inconsequentialities and agenbites of inwit can be pitied or admired, as appropriate.Or even ignored. Please yrself.
*But not today.
Druggy fools pt 1
redacted, sorry. Just pictures of old pals in the ’70s getting messed up, fell victim to photobucket shenanigans
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Lines
OK so this is a sort of poem.
I promise I won't do this often, but I was looking for something else and found it on my Mac. A meditation on getting older than I ever thought I'd be.
Lines
So we start with 0, which is not O,
no sirree bob, it’s zero,
And an egg,
The quantity of absence,
the quality of incipience,
of the beginning of everything,
or at least of a chicken.
(Incidentally, have you ever noticed that promulgating an egg in three dimensions creates an ovoid, a shape that is both nothing and nowhere. This is an interpolation, by the way. It doesn’t have to rhyme, or be in time)
(And don’t people get excited by zeros? Put three in a row and all their millennia come at once, a year early. They fell for the flim-flam of the three ring circus.
And yes, it does bother me,
and I know it shouldn’t,
that I should rise above
pallid pettifoggery,
piffling pedantry,
platitudinous pomposity and
pusillanimous priggery,
and turn my face to the dawn,
Hash pipe clenched between my teeth
Freudian Slippers on my feet
I contemplate my fissured fizzog
in a mirror short of silver.)
Chorus
Squads of zimmerframes overtake,
If this is living I’d rather be baked
Rah rah, rather be baked
rather be baked, rather be baked
or Peruvian Flaked.
and just as forty brought the reading glasses
and fifty the seeing glasses
so, as the zero rolls on the six,
something once elastic snaps,
and my chest
slumps down
and out.
The 60s model comes with built-in shelving.
I thought I would take some acid to mark the passage of my 60th year.
Then I changed my mind.
And changed it back again, a process I rehearsed
More than once.
Currently I’m confused.
Which one was it?
Again
I promise I won't do this often, but I was looking for something else and found it on my Mac. A meditation on getting older than I ever thought I'd be.
Lines
So we start with 0, which is not O,
no sirree bob, it’s zero,
And an egg,
The quantity of absence,
the quality of incipience,
of the beginning of everything,
or at least of a chicken.
(Incidentally, have you ever noticed that promulgating an egg in three dimensions creates an ovoid, a shape that is both nothing and nowhere. This is an interpolation, by the way. It doesn’t have to rhyme, or be in time)
(And don’t people get excited by zeros? Put three in a row and all their millennia come at once, a year early. They fell for the flim-flam of the three ring circus.
And yes, it does bother me,
and I know it shouldn’t,
that I should rise above
pallid pettifoggery,
piffling pedantry,
platitudinous pomposity and
pusillanimous priggery,
and turn my face to the dawn,
Hash pipe clenched between my teeth
Freudian Slippers on my feet
I contemplate my fissured fizzog
in a mirror short of silver.)
Chorus
Squads of zimmerframes overtake,
If this is living I’d rather be baked
Rah rah, rather be baked
rather be baked, rather be baked
or Peruvian Flaked.
and just as forty brought the reading glasses
and fifty the seeing glasses
so, as the zero rolls on the six,
something once elastic snaps,
and my chest
slumps down
and out.
The 60s model comes with built-in shelving.
I thought I would take some acid to mark the passage of my 60th year.
Then I changed my mind.
And changed it back again, a process I rehearsed
More than once.
Currently I’m confused.
Which one was it?
Again
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