Two days before my 67th birthday,
and it's one of those days -
all teeth and troubles,
ash and grit and
promises waiting to be
broken. Don't deny it:
don't lie to me,
you are, or ought to be,
better than that. The
cracked and damp flagstones
lie in serried, crazypaved
formation as testament to
the impossibility of dreams.
I have been reading Celine,
Neruda, First Dog On The Moon,
listening too to Young Gods,
and they all agree:
the angels are not on
our side. There's truth
in such honesty, a
razorlike reality tunnel
sans dreaming, ohne hope,
the common currency of modern life
in a world bankrupt of
morality, compassion,
solidarity. Yes, I am autistic, proudly!
I am invisible, therefore. But i see
everything. Everything!

MP 151124