I'm not feeling this
and 3 words sounds about right.
Watched Hot Ones with Kennan Thompson
and it just made me feel old
had a discussion last night
with my friend
that really made me feel
like we are old
and the world is starting
to move on from us
because he was complaining
about safe spaces
the way MY old people
probably complained
about compact discs.


Three words a night is what I'm supposed to do. 
I should just leave it there.
I had a day off work today
and it was nice
to completely disconnect.
Girlfriend came to me
with a problem
that should've been dealt with
by the contractor
so I printed spec sheets
and said
here you go, figure it out.
People get mad
when I do things my way
then they get mad
when I say ok
do it your way.
Then they say
oh it's the way
you said it.
Fuck off,
you're in charge now.
I'll be back
in a few
to criticize you for it.


It was a good day
in that it went quick
and there was much clicking on things
and talking to people.
A friend called at the end
of the day and was sad about his father
who'd run out of coverage
for a nurse to help clean him daily.
My friend started with
"Well, I need a shower."
but he's one of those
who calls and then has to go.
So he did.

So I started my walk
and called my dad
who relayed his statement to his oncologist
that he's not doing bad
but he's not doing good
and the doctor said the right things
they are trying
and hoping.

If the doc was in office
it'd be thoughts and prayers

My dad said he'd leave a note
on the table if he died
but that he wasn't planning to do so
until he won the Lotto
because he'd played it
since the day it started
the same numbers
and those millions were his.
He laughed
like he did the day before
when I told him to tell the doctor
that he should be feeling like 80
but felt like 90.

I would've slumped and cried
against that tree
but for the two dudes pointing
at a house and
I think they were discussing
the landscape
and they parted like that
red fucking sea
giving me my 6 feet
letting the walk continue.
What do I say to my dad
but yeah
and when he says I love you my son
in English
all I can think is please
not tonight
not tonight.


I thought I’d lost
the notebook I’m writing in
maybe at the cancer center
when I took my girlfriend.
I was like, what
would these people
trying not to die
think about my notes on DNS
or the shitty Batman doodles?
Huge relief
when I found the notebook
in the car’s center console
but I thought maybe
I should lose something again


I guess they saved the worst for last. I am ripe to end my very late last Writober entry on ripe. Ripe is a word that feels yellow to me. I think of mangoes and avocados falling down in yards across Miami from May to August. Extra heapings of raccoon poop in the grass early in the season. I remember one summer when we got heavy rain at my uncle’s house in Hollywood, Florida. We got in his ’71 Suburban and drove around the flooded alleys and streets. He helped people with flooded engines and deployed his sons to retrieve floating avocados and mangoes. I just watched it all from the passenger seat. I’m more of a meat eater. 


Knock on the door and when I open it, I’m immediately suspicious of the old man with the clipboard, green shirt from the electric company, and a yellow smile. He’s wearing pink basketball sneakers is what’s weird to me. He adjusts his glasses and does this Goofy guffaw and rolls out a greeting. I’m not interested, I start and he responds but you haven’t heard what I have to say and I start to say that I’m not interested in anything, but HE says but you’re not interested in anything, are ya. 

No and have a good night.

He says I know your pain I see the lines under your eyes, not even bags, lines drawing you down into the earth, into the dirt, or a box of ash. I can help. 

But there’s a catch, I finish. 


You look up from your place on your knees on the bathroom floor. You’ve had a good streak going. Thirty-eight years of not having to be in the hospital. But something inside you hurts and you’re going to need help. You pour yourself down the toilet, ask the bacteria which way to the hospital, and reconstitute yourself in an empty men’s room stall in the hospital. You ignore the looks everyone gives you as you walk through the hospital, dripping wet, squeaking and squishing as you step and you tell the woman in the emergency room, “Something inside me is DRY!”