I caught me one good poem for my book Up Your Ass. So all my creative juices haven't dried up yet. I'm experimenting with this long line form. Sometimes it works. Some of the lines don't break correctly because of the format of the blog. I just corrected them so now they do.
YOU WAKE ONE MORNING
You wake one morning when the alarm sounds in the middle of your life
and cancer battle,
and you begin to toddle about the house with an aging mind, trying to
formulate a beginning
when you suddenly miss your wife so much that tears rush into your
eyes and a hole opens
in your belly. For a moment you don’t know what it is you
have to do to keep yourself alive,
then you imagine yourself as an even much older man, alone and missing
a woman’s touch,
and you remember the old man they brought into the nursing home where
you were working
in that small town of long ago because you’d just broken up with wife
number three. You had
to make a living, the same way you always had to make a living no
matter how or where.
You recall they found him in his farmhouse out in the boonies alone in
shit stained undies.
He’d lost his wife of 60 years and couldn’t cook for himself and hadn’t
cared for himself.
His sons found him that way, more dead than alive among the pines,
delusional with grief.
You recall how you saw him as an example of the pampered male, so dependent
on a spouse
that he couldn’t live without her and how his dilemma was smugly humorous
to you back then
when you were contemptuous of all the members of your own pampered gender,
the idiot male.
That was before counseling where you learned to have compassion for
the male you were and
where you wondered how you’d come to hate your manhood so much you
didn’t want to be one.
Maybe that’s why at puberty a few times you stood before the mirror in
your stepmom’s undies
to give yourself a thrill. In counseling Bob asked why you’d stopped
doing it, and you told him,
“I don’t know. I just stopped.” That was before counseling with
ex-priest Bob who left his order
because his succubus was so beautiful that the sap rose up in him like
honey and blinded him,
and you saw how, for guessed at reasons, you’d taken the women’s side
in the battle of the sexes
in the turmoil of the 60s that busted up all the John Wayne foundations
of American existence,
and you sank into a quagmire of self loathing, booze and
woman needing you called your self,
and you heard Pete Seeger singing, “Sometimes I feel like a motherless
child,” one morning
like this morning when the tears wash up out of your silent
interior into your eyes, remembering.
"That's My Dog Tige, He Lives In A Shoe. I'm Buster Brown, Look For Me in There Too" When I was a kid, I had to do chores in the basement frequently, and I listened to a radio show as I worked. Buster Brown shoes advertised on that show. Froggy the magic frog who twanged his "magic twanger" was also on that show. No double entendre intended. 
HO HUM, HO HUM, IT'S OFF TO REWRITE HO HUM I GO. I must admit that my writing energy is at low ebb. Part of the decline is because we were out of town over the Christmas holiday, and I'm trying to get myself back into harness, but it keeps slipping off my back. Some of my lack of interest is a hangover, I believe, from the cancer scare. For many months, I lived in a bag or sack, a psychic state of existence for sure. No certain future lay ahead for me. 
