Phlegmatic Immunity

I'm too old for this.

My first book of poems

was just published in

Romania. The chances 

of anyone outside that 

country seeing it are as

good as if it were published

by Hillbilly Press in 

Arkansas.

It was nice to see my words

in print. That lasted a day or

two. 

I wrote this in a dream:

"Achievements are blades

of grass that fly in the face

of death like straw in the wind."

I think I was trying to tell myself

something.

I'm enjoying my cranky, creaky

life too much anymore to try 

very hard to do anything.

Anyway, my poems are like a

message from a bottle, unlikely

to be found except on some

distant shore.

Dig me now, or, dig me up...

later. 

Look! I'm a time Capulet!

Too lazy even to commit

suicide...not even enough

intention for that. Just

another forgotten Yorick:

"He had a great sense of 

humor, although I can't

prove that."