The captain is out to lunch and the sailors have taken over the ship

About writing, I write basically the same way now as I did 50 years ago, maybe a little better but not much. Why did I have to reach the age of 51 I could pay the rent with my writing? I mean, if I´m right and my writing is no different, what took so long? Did I have to wait for the world to catch up with me? And now, if it has, where am I now? In bad shape, that´s what. But I don´t think I´ve gotten the fat head from any luck that I´ve had. Does a fathead ever realize that he´s one? But I´m far from contented. Something is in me that I can´t control. I can never drive my car over a bridge without thinking of suicide. I can never look at a lake or an ocean without thinking of suicide. I mean, I won´t linger on it all. But it will flash on me: SUICIDE. Like a light going on. In the darkness. That there is an out helps you stay in. Get it? Otherwise, it could only be madness. And that´s no fun, buddy. And whenever I get off a good poem, that´s another crutch to keep me going. I don´t know about other people, but when I bend over to put on my shoes in the morning, I think, Christ-oh-mighty, now what? I´m screwed by life, we don´t get along. I have to také little bites out of it, not the whole thing. It´s like swallowing buckets of shit. I am never surprised that the madhouses and jails are full and that the streets are full. I like to look at my cats, they chill me out. They make me feel all right. Don´t put me in a roomful of humans, though. Don´t ever do that. Especially on a holiday. Don´t do it.

Buk

icr
11:26pm

* Look at me !