Close to the Line Where Trembling is Worshipped
I traded in my 2008 Dodge Caliber for a 2019 Kia Sportage.
In a Dodge, I went slick-to-slick to Hell and back countless times.
In a Kia, I tend to go reclusive into a Sirius bag of Beatles.
For years, there has been a widening tear in the fabric of my nutritional boundaries.
My Granada Hills library is closed for carpeting and asbestos removal.
I’ve been dropped into the West Valley library pool without a calming supply of oxygen.
I’m still working as a Los Angeles city librarian at 72.
Baby Boomers refuse to get off the stage, refuse to believe in mortality.
I’m retired from being a research editor and a community college professor.
I have not retired from bluffing up a storm now and again.
I always want to be open to the vibes coming from cats in the field.
My community cats see toxic zombies in the dark.
My flashlight only seems to catch the eyes of a younger me.
Gods have taken to summering in a Hawaiian beach house while Heaven is being fumigated.
Eileen and I like to hike up the early side of morning before insanity can spit on the day.
Eileen makes sure that she cooks up enough Indian masala
and Thai chicken to tide me over for the duration.
I like to sleep with my inside cats surrounding me for protection,
and it is best to sleep on my left side, never on my back or stomach.
As soon as I close my eyes, I seem to encounter soap bubbles full of messed up poetry.
Sometimes I don’t make it to bed before the sandman
takes to playing with my face for dramatic effect.
I don’t always wake up in my recliner before trembling takes over the night.
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