February 28, 2009

Unhealed



Mike Havenar
Today at 11:57am
you asked how I was, I said very unhappy. You said your writing, I said partly. But it isn't the writing, the writing’s okay. I just can't post it on the blog, I might lose my license to practice. No, it's that I know I will never heal, Marvin Gaye. The medicine is well-known but no doctor to administer it.

She got the message but never replied. She seldom does. What difference would it make anyway?

Distant train horn a persistent tenor wail growing louder with each passing tie. Gone now.

The nearly-quiet world for a moment, only a distant sander, a faint rumble of streethum under gray sky. Almost cold. Neighbors indoors. Too early to plant dahlias.

Coughing from smoking too much. Who gives a damn.

Insecurity from crazy landlady who owes me. Fighting off resentments like the Chinese commie hordes of North Korea. I’m losing. Like the whole Eighth Army I’m in full-retreat.

Wondering about the Jews. Would they let me in that Tribe? I doubt it.

Thinking of my lost dead friend Dave, such a good friend, my only eulogy. Wish he was here to talk to. I could tell him anything. He loved me is why.

From the Halls of Montezuma to the solitary confinement cell of Louisiana. Welcome home Mike.

Beautiful women. They get so much, they just don’t get it.

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