Judging from the below not-so-happy-horseshit; I’ve forgotten how to write poetry. It doesn’t bother me, I mean having forgotten, the not so happy horseshit below bothers me. I wouldn’t post it if it was half as shitty; that’d be embarrassing.
On the plus side I didn’t read A Poem In October and make hash out of trying to write a Dylan Thomas poem. Maybe if I put on a helmet and pads I’ll try writing the idea down in prose. Dense little paragraphs with callouses on their hands in late autumn, perhaps the first frost, rotating the old timber forward. Maybe the paragraph standing close by, breathing moist warm air into her hands is staring up at the night sky.
Or maybe I won’t be able to find a helmet.
I did visit my dad this morning. They had him in the therapy room. A perky young man with enough of a goatee to prove he was on the dark side of puberty said slowly and loudly to me “I’m (aw shit, forgot his name) I’m an occupational therapist. Do you know what occupational therapy is?” In my mind I was saying, slowly and loudly “You’re going to get my dad a job?” Instead I was only a tad snarky in my regular voice and timbre I said “I’m haredawg, Dr. Drools son”. The snarky rolled off his back like goose shit over a ducks head. It would’ve done the same to me two years ago. It’s only snarky in a town where people try hard to be polite to remind someone that they hadn’t asked your name or how you are doing.
I guess we’ve all bitched about meaningless small talk before, but when it’s actual protocol … I don’t know. I blew some smoke up his ass in the way I had imagined (e.g. he asked me about my dad’s goals for therapy and I actually gave him some) and when he introduced me to his supervisor we stepped out of the way and had the real conversation. Even a miracle in physical and occupational therapy isn’t going to make it so my dad can return to his home. I don’t mean to suggest the guy was stupid for being young or patronizing and I’d rather see enthusiasm at a nursing home than the opposite. He isn’t really that young and I’m guessing a lot of his customers do need things slow and loud and it must become a habit.
I almost felt like I killed his kitten when, a half hour later, that news broke. He was so happy too that my dad managed to get one sock on by himself (under constant reinforcement and with a belt holding him into a wheelchair. The wheelchair isn’t really necessary, but the belt is. Oh, and my dad needed to rest after the one sock then asked why he only had one sock on). Talking to the supervisor I got the positive vibe that this was the proper backdoor, not full confirmation, but sideways confirmation, a standard for release that I’m pretty sure we both know my dad isn’t capable of. Even if his body were in perfect shape it’s getting bad directions from his crosswired mind.
I didn’t know this until yesterday, but most of the medication given to heart patients ---? Causes dementia. My friend, who I remain mysterious about, told me. I’m sure it’s in all the journals, but I don’t read medical journals. That always sort of bugged me. When we (the State of Oregon and I) really couldn’t track down a putative father we could terminate by publication (e.g. All parties interested in the Matter of Kid X something something something termination of parental rights and a bunch of other somethings) and we’d publish in trade journals. Nobody reads trade journals except people who have to or aspiring professors who have to publish or perish. I mean it bugged me that I would have done six months of hard tracking and it ended in still needing a meaningless few inches in a journal no one was going to read. It’s not that it doesn’t seem just (though it doesn’t) it seems pointless.
I assume doctors read medical journals. I also assume cardiologists don’t really give a shit about the head. I’m not saying that they should or that being self absorbed pricks isn’t the best way of going about it, in fact empathy is probably a shitty virtue for cutting into someone’s chest, I’m just saying I’m pretty sure they don’t give out that warning. It’d be important to me I mean as the patient.
Yeah, no. Hey at least I didn’t write a poem about it. I think we’d all be much safer if I slowly stepped away from the keyboard.
The old timber burns the longest
Embers smoldering until dawn
Warm down to fine white ash.
Maybe the brightest star burns quickest
With timber it’s age.
Neither get a poem
Until they are set on fire.
Poems are for people,
People don’t give a shit
Why the fire lasts the night
Or how pretty the night sky is;
Just the hands and eyes
Of the beholder.
Timber and stars
Don’t set matches to people.
They’d just be the enemy then
Or an enemy
People have loved ones and enemies;
Other people
But mostly they have strangers.
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