Morning, having slept in, sort of. I had a hard time sleeping after driving nearly 500 miles yesterday, this would not have been a problem years ago but age, abuse to body (internal), accidents resulting in abuse to body (external), and now chronic pain in leg from hip to large toe make even sitting painful. Today's poem is about what landed me here, sort of.
my extended family has embraced Kara so beautifully that I nearly teared. I am so glad that we made this trip, I am so glad that we can embrace once more. Tonight we dine with my second cousins and may see my Great Aunt Kate again but she has had a procedure today for her own pain that will prevent us from being together. Maybe.
Goethe died today in 1832. It is because of Goethe that I journal. It is because of a friend of mine that I do so publicly, sort of publicly. This is meant for popular consumption and my other journal is only meant for similar consumption after my untimely death, whenever that may be.
THE MOTORCYCLE
the motorcycle had been
insured, paid for and
was now just a pile of
bolts, chrome and accessories
somewhere in
some fenced off yard
where pit bulls bent
to lick their balls and
longed for tastes of
human flesh. my pile of
bolts, chrome and
accessories
was more well guarded
now then ever.
- I wrote this
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