Aug 3, the Rooftop

More days of madness, trying just to do some simple things like get fingerprinted (it turns out that due to budgetary constraints, many departments outsource that job now. Christ. Madness. And another wasted day, this time in Culver City where I was met by a thoroughly officious asshole of a cop who’s just time-serving. Cocksucker.

Anyway, I’ve made a couple of decisions re: this whole affair that I’ll be sharing with you shortly. I want to see if I can get things moving along a little.

Meanwhile, folks….I cannot argue with the accommodations. There’s a fishing boat in the Pacific, the tide’s rising again, and I’m sitting on this rooftop with a glass of wine. Not bad. “Nice place to sweat out an appeal,” all right. So, my plan for the rest of the evening’s really fairly simple: Type in a few poems, probably downstairs after all, come to think of it, since the wind’s kicking up and given the condition the notebook’s in, I don’t think it’d survive a hard gust anymore. This is the one I called the Bloodied Notebook; it’s been through its share of shit.

Lisa would’ve been upset as hell about all this. I do know she’s with me, forgives my many mistakes, and endeavors to give comfort and solace. Truly, I believe that. She didn’t want for me to go through any of this. That’s for certain.

So, day in and day out, I try to keep this thing going. I don’t know how much more energy I have for this; it’s all ridiculous and I’m spending time I don’t want to spend like this, with the exception of course of the writing. Over sixty drafts so far for In 8, so I dare say we now have enough to choose from. All I need to do is type in a few poems every day now, and before too long we’ll be caught up and then….

Lovely. Civilians just showed up. Children, in fact. I have little use in this world for children. I am not paternal outside the classroom where I can be a dick. Just ask ol’ Gumboy Fuckball, whose “anthem” deserved the trash and nothing else, even in “revision.”

It’ll be a long time, if ever, before I’ll be able to enjoy America again. Beween the politics and the waste-case idiocy of most of the voting base, why the hell would I want to? Besides, Lisa died here. I never, ever forget that.

So in the end I’m using this experience as the writing workshop I never got to take up. Lisa’s trying to give it back to me in a lump sum, apparently.


About johnwylam1957

I'm a poet and teacher now living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
This entry was posted in Life "After", On Lisa's Death: Trying to Survive the Unsurvivable. Bookmark the permalink.

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