I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


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Sunday, August 13, 2017

Health care for all sounds so automatically correct


August 13, 1994  (I was 49)

Health care for all sounds so automatically correct
it couldn’t possibly be profitable except in some abstract sense
or to those who will steal from any plan we have.
And it tends to democratize accessibility to expensive care.
Global classism is not confined to religion race or place of origin,
it’s who gets the human organs and who gets the orangutan’s;
and of course who we get them from.
There always has to be someone to get them from.
It’s hard to realize the haves like the have nots,
there is so much evidence to the contrary.
Every little lobby group seems to need support.
The individual is just a collection of groups it supports,
just like God on a smaller scale
with not quite God-sized weapons firing at semi-automatic clip.

We allow the magnanimous gesture of the ape.
The heart of an orangutan
gets transplanted into some hyperactive chimp
who then eagerly displays problem-solving orientation,
trying in this way and that to elicit our attention.
The self-contained visionary orang goes unnoticed as he dreams.
The poet of the apes is irreverently disinterested
in our antic striving.  Mentally poised
his comic pride is such
that his laughter is repressed,
the humor of the swampy woods of Sumatra.
His demeanor remains subtly impudent
even as we give his heart away.

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