not typical for your average psychiatric social worker. The man had come in to the ER with some vague medical complaints, hoping to get admitted to the hospital. Unfortunately for him, his problems proved to be too fixable, not up to the powers of modern medicine. This was depressing as he was kind of a feeble old guy. Not really able to defend himself on these mean streets and having nowhere else to go, he had been staying at the rattiest, most drug, crime and vermin-infested homeless shelter in town. You know the one they all talk about, the one the mayor has been threatening to shut down for years but never will because it would mean dumping hundreds of homeless back into the open streets without the political will for a tax hike to pay for new shelters (I mean look how much the new stadium is costing!)
honey in the hive –
we keep pouring even knowing
there’s a hole
Anyway, this old guy – the last thing he said to me as I shook my head in the negative to his pleading to be admitted, was that he thought he had pending charges, out of county. Sir, I said, why not just turn yourself in and go to jail. Then you’d have food, shelter, clothing, TV and healthcare, all at taxpayer expense. He considered for a moment, rolling over in his mind the likelihood of surviving for many more nights on the increasingly cold streets and shelters, and agreed he’d surrender to police. A quick check with the police (one of the calmest 911 calls I have ever made) revealed this to be so and just like that, he had the cuffs clapped on him and a big smile on his face.
the old wolf
settles down with the thrown bone
Eric A. Lohman
I read something interesting at the bookstore today. Someone had written on the restroom wall: “if you think your poem sounds boring or dumb, just throw in a rhyme… bum.” I’m sure he or she was sitting on that one a long time.
adding my two cents
to the take-a-penny
I had a dream
For one or two seconds the world seemed to be perfect just the way it is.
No need to change anything …
Now I’m sitting here with my freshly sharpened pencil and some blank sheets
missing the deadline december roses
Yesterday I removed -1000 emails from my computer. In a sense I exterminated them like the vermin they are, infesting every aspect of my life. Where do deleted messages go? Are they like space debris destined to forever encircle our fragile earth? And what of those trillions of social media and app communiques as inane as ‘having a great time, wish you were here’?
In this age of instant texting what meaning do these messages carry? George Orwell, H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Carl Sagan have all had their say, now it is Stephen Hawking and Nostradamus.
Humanoids with huge thumbs are programming humans – so yes, Your honour, I plead guilty to cybercide, systematically deleting 1000 people from my cyberspace … message by mess… age…
black umbrellas gone
just one drips rain …
into the open grave
A comma. I don’t pause very often. I pause too often. An ear. I gave up listening a long time ago. A cloud trail. Is there an end? A cloud-tail. Fast disappearing like my sense of self.
I remind myself that nothing is constant. Except maybe for this. A score of nows.
in a funk my muse and i
An ant crawls across the face of a mirror. But the mirror is not a mirror, it’s the sky: an even monotone gray, flat and dull as my hair in the morning. And the ant is really an airplane, so distant I can make out neither the shape of its wings nor the roar of its engines. It moves in such a straight line that it can’t be an ant; ants are notorious stumblers. Sometimes after my morning smoke, I stumble into the bathroom and stare at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, wondering why I’m still here.