god-damned minimalists


God-damned Minimalists

I’m getting used to it, 77 years old, my body held together with mesh and pins and guy-wire, I spring out of bed, work my ass off in the hot sun, crash out on the couch as soon as I come thru the door at the end of the day, don’t move an inch for an hour, sometimes two, snap awake when the phone rings or for no reason at all and at first think it’s tomorrow; then I’m on my feet in a flash, out the door, a mocha from the drive-thru, sometimes a triple, up on the hill or down under the trees by the park, whip out the yellow pad and stab away at it with a ballpoint, then nail my hand to the dash with a spike and snarl at an imaginary creative-writing grad student, “Sum that up, sucker, sum up that day,” and he says: “Pain.”

God-damned minimalists.

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