For better or worse, I have never
blacked out. Not
really, anyway.
I haven’t even passed out.
Ever.
Unless you count pre-surgery
anesthesia-induced counting-
backwards-from-ten-to-maybe-
three induced unconsciousness.
Sometimes I’m envious of those
who
occasionally reduce their
faculties to nil ...
recreationally
or otherwise. But
there seem
always to be such absurd
politics
in the determination
of which
parcels of land get to be called
National Park. Or get
to keep
that name. Or get to
discard
that name forthwith.
This is
just one reason it is invariably
difficult for me to force myself
to the voting station.
Or connect
the dots or lines or whatever,
stick everything into the allotted
and postage-paid envelope, and
tote it downstairs to the blue
mailbox that (invariably) has
a mouthful of graffiti.
Raise
your hand if you look good.
That’s all I’m saying.
No-
body ever got this far without
a little bit of shine.
I didn’t
even blossom until later in
life, but look at me now.
