It occurred to me on Geary Street.
We all smell like robots.
—Ron Palmer
Today’s Washington Post headline: Republicans
rediscover tolerance. But on the phone I learn
that the most popular charm is the Charm of
Precision. None of which has any poignance
(whatsoever!) around the time one discovers
one has been turned down for medical insurance.
Around the time when I get the envelope from
Blue Shield notifying me that I have been
REFUSED MEDICAL INSURANCE
DUE TO PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS.
So you try to let it out—somewhat—to “vent”
as in to verbalize in a probably louder
than normal voice with a skin tone that
is probably a bit more flushed than during
‘normal conversations’—to the ones you
love or care about or at least to the ones
who will generally or with some predict-
ability act as if they are listening and
as if they know who you are and as if
they could (possibly or potentially)
get concerned with whatever it is
that you are heaving at them so
spastically, so illogically, so
emotionally.
Morning reading after a whining
gets up for work. Get up to go to
work, whinnying. How come fire
is so liquid-like? The fire is
roiling. The roiling ocean.
If I can’t read the words
on the page. If I can’t
remember to tell you
about the words on
the page what is
actually lost?
