Monday, October 19, 2009


Moving is like digging out one's entrails
To examine the last night's supper
Appreciating the meat and wondering at all the rice
Peas are pretty green but pellet like.
I am wasted by the effort of the past
Would torch the collected wealth and start again
Appreciating bulemia,
Feeling sick with the braille of memory,
Wondering who gave me this gift and why am I keeping it.
When ever will I read this erudite book that I carry
Move to move to move?
When will I sew this button on this jacket
That is too valuable to replace but I never use.
Like the out of dated disco clothes that I kept as costume,
My life fading to carnival as I admit to my gypsey self.
And technologies of memory without devices to
Support the various outdated platforms of a careless computer age.
Planned obsolescence beside hand written cards for birthdays
And names of loved ones now dead.
The present wisdom is to forget and move on.
But I'm not the svelte work out of gym craze
Instead get my exercise carrying bits of my life in boxes
Back and forth to a truck .
I will hold myself in the storage locker
A museum archive of self.
I hope it is over before my saniety loses touch with today
Trapped in the recesses of yesterday.
There is little I am taking on to my new place.
A wigwam in a new forest as I am a nomad now
Long ago leaving the attic and garage world
Of communities and neighbourhoods
Come at last to being lean and mean and light
With creches of supplies and stored treasures.
I'm moving on.


alicemacgillivray said...

If moving on is literal, Ted would value maintaining contact.

bobbi said...

good Luck!
You know where to find Me, the Nooner on Sundays.
hoping the move goes well, call if You need help,,,,,
Cheers!!! Friend!!!!