Monday, September 20, 2010

Allen Ginsberg

October 1, 1987

I believe this entry is in response to poetry being read to us in class by Phoebe Hanson.

Kansas disco gay girls
"Chances are" farm boys
fat asses festivities and
mechanical things irrevocably connected.

"I'm a victim of telephones"
telephone victimization
always rings at the most inopportune times but we always answer.

"Flying over Detroit"
injustice in feelings of murder, discrimination
red petaled flower of my body anger.
They have fucked up the planet.
Purely military consideration
Schizophrenics running the planet
Military is waiting for orgasms,
but there are not enough orgasms to go around.
Environmental crisis
bloody press cards
have bullets in their heads
Buffalo Gay 90's bring them back.


I love books. I love poems. I love words, and speech and language. My thoughts ramble. I have been settling into my new home life. The children are home, the grandchildren too. My husband has adopted our adult children. We are a big extended family - and for the most part, all of us are very happy.

Tony and I had just made a budget, days before the first child returned home to us. Now that budget is out the window. A dream deferred. No travel trailer for Lady Door. That's okay. I am resigned to it. Trading the trailer for a chance to see my grandchildren grow - hands down - not even a glance back at the trailer.

The children are wonderful - and distracting. I can get so wound up in talking with them, making things and acting as their servant that I can forget things that matter outside. Like going to school or creating curriculum or grading.

I worry about the new principal at my school. I am paranoid that she is watching me, waiting to make a misstep. I am afraid. My stomach grinds. On the plus side - I have lost 13 pounds as a result of stress.

I feel that I don't get any time for myself. I fear that I speak too much and do not listen enough. I wish I wasn't me. I wish death upon myself almost daily. I hate myself. I want to die.

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