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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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t. k. splake |
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GRAY-ZZZ-ING recently after waking from a late afternoon "nodd" (nap of deepdeath) i reflected on my lifetime as a survivor. i was fortunate at age four that the whooping cough did not tear open the sutures from an appendicitis operation, and, the sandlot pickup baseball game skull fracture was not fatal or debilitating. i also recall the summer when young tommy swam stronger then the lake michigan 'riptide' currents and didn't drown at the beach outside south haven. in addition, there was the long night into early morning when this poet put his 357 magnum down after deciding against suicide during a painful blackass writer's block depression. luckily i dodged the heavy glass ashtray my ex-pat crazy swiss wife threw at me, and later escaped her knife threats one boozy long ago late night. i miraculously drove from ironwood, michigan, in the upper peninsula somehow 500 miles home to battle creek in an alcoholic blackout without crashing my vw-bus into a concrete overpass column or piling it into a highway ditch. during the past year i had a bone-marrow biopsy that tested negative for cancer, and, a mri exam that revealed my aortal aneurysm had not grown larger since the previous echo sounding. in september, a hospital cat scan showing cholesterol free neck arteries provided an additional relief following a scary "tia" experience. as an aging writer, poet, and photographer grown long in tooth and balding, it seems strange how life has come down to this. i have gradually progressed from a single late afternoon power nap to needing there or four short daily respites in the embrace of old morpheus. now upon waking from short bardic nappings, i possess the strange sensation of returning from a deep and black otherworld void. i also feel momentarily uncertain as to where i am and if it is day or nighttime. presently i wonder how much longer i can resist the exotic pull of the delicious slumberings and continued allure of sweet dreams. i believe that very soon the time will come when i shall choose to reside in another world reminiscent of brother brautigan's "watermelon sugar." this would be a quiet sanctuary where i would be free to rummage through the "forgotten works" of my past consciousness and search for the lost birthday gifts and christmas presents that i never received. then, i could finally give in to the soft inviting voices whispering "come on over and stay." at last i would return to live with marcia, susan, valerie, margaret, the garlic meat lady, ex-wives and past lovers, in a continuous grand and splendid feast. |