Quest for Junk Food - Writers' Group - Snowy Day - My 31st Anniversary - Poem: Homeless in Pennsylvania

 A winner.

 Yesterday I ate at the Hatboro Dish. Coffee was flavorless so I persuaded them not to charge me. Oatmeal was delicious. My blood sugar paid the price.

Went to the Hatboro PO with my old postcards and affixed correct amount of stamps. Sat still at home and wrote THIRTY cards. Then ran after the mail girl, a new woman named Manisha, whose name I used in my new short story about the adventures of a part Siamese cat.

Shockingly, the three people I contacted today - Martha, Scott and Ada - did not receive them.

Monday is no-mail-day President's Day.

Could not resist buying this Matzo Ball Soup. It was delicious, except way too salty. I embellished it with kale and shrooms.

Two intripid souls showed up at the Writers' Group.

I wanted a photo of me in this crinkly red shirt I bought at the Doylestown Hospital Gift Shop five years ago. I was getting a shot of cortisone for my bad back. Nothing worked except an operation.

The Gloria Vanderbilt pants, which I bought at Walmart, were hemmed by my mom. This is the first time I've worn them.

I'm sipping now on the same tea I drank at the Giant. Hot Cinnamon Spice. I brought the tea bags myself and Kiana poured me the hot water.

Linda Barrett brought in another chapter of her imaginative science fiction story.

Each of our stories was three pages long. Mine is tentatively called "The Sorrows of a Mother."

It's about a Siamese cat.

Meow! I got the idea from a friend of mine, Elissa, who just adopted a cat. And also from Nurse Terry in my painting class who works in the TU emergency room.

Pow! right in the kisser. Lots of violence there. They repaired a cheekbone.

 When I delivered the pizza toppings to Scott, we looked out the window at all these birds at the feeder. He is an excellent provider.

The early falling snow was easy to shovel. I did the sidewalks of six houses. The snow had stopped and is falling a lil bit now. After midnight, the deluge.

When I came in from shoveling, I knocked this styrofoam panel off the curtain rod.

What! You brought your camera over, said Scott.

Yes, I said, I'm gonna take a picture of the snow.

Here's Scott's Valentine gift for me. Gerbera daisies. Look at the darling faces of the two babies. Such pretty little heads.

Center stage, next to the purple cyclamen I bought at the Giant.

Fresh basil highlights every dish.

I also wrote a poem called Homeless in Pennsylvania, but am not ready to share it yet.

And now, Dear Reader, I've got an hour before Pizza, so I'm gonna make some soup, while I call Mom and then listen to my latest audio book

  See Wiki about the author. Wiki is unhappy with it. YOU read it, I've gotta go cook.

Okay, the soup is cooking away. Spoke to Mom and asked if she remembered that this is the 31st anniv of my manic psychotic episode.

She did. 

I asked her to reminisce. She said she'd prefer to forgot but her memories were very clear from that February day in 1984.

She said I got better b/c I'm strong and determined.

Thanks, Mom, I said. Just like you.

Wrote the below poem b/c of an article I read in the Intelligencer about homeless people in Bucks County. I did indeed meet a nice homeless man, smelling of whiskey, when I went for a walk at the Willow Grove mall about 5 yrs ago.  It's a great story. Remind me to talk about it some time.

The below story is not based on Bill Carmine, which was his name.

As Ron Abrams says - and where did you hear this Ron? - it takes anxiety to create. And it takes anxiety not to create.

HOMELESS IN PENNSYLVANIA

Young

smelling of wine

whiskers growing

on his lonesome face

he camps out in the

little woods behind

my house.

Met him as he picked through

my compost heap

asparagus stems

cucumber rinds

what’s left of the tangerines

he walked with a limp

“a gimp leg” he called it

the explosion that took his leg

in Helmland Province

he remembers the roar

of the plane when they

carted him away

Looked down at the

denuded straw-colored

land running with stray dogs

he thought, “Be back boys, see

if I won’t.”

Peg-legs aren’t asked

back. Laurie didn’t wait

for him. The folks moved

down south, so he squirts

from hoses in the

neighborhood for thirst

and to clean his hands

and face, cold water he

swishes through his greasy

brown hair.

Cold ain’t cold no more

when you’ve been to the Afghan.

Feelings are cratered on the

dark side of the moon.

Life don’t matter no more. Just give

me my whiskey, them little drops I

find in bottles in the trash. All’s I

wanna see are those little golden

drops, sweeter than a woman's mouth.

Let me dream my whiskey dreams.

See me floating on a golden cloud

a man in a gondola, women of every

nation snuggling close and bringing

me peace, my face buried in their

pillowy breasts, like when mama

would suckle me and tell me

I loves you baby Wayne.