no, not a political divide crossed.

no, not switching fandom to the
hated other crosstown team,
with the clownish bobble head
thing.

once a meat eater, a meat eater
for life.

stolidly, boringly straight, waaay
too late
to switch that side.

the switch referred to herein is more
profound, straining boundaries of a
decades long term relationship.

I desire  to switch sides of the bed we
sleep on, after decades of habit, that
transferred with us when we traveled,
moved etc. To each Our Side was the
Natural Order of Things, a higher law,
immutable, constitutional and ranked
higher than the Ten Commandments.

over time, my side sank beneath the
excess weight of growing old with
bad lifestyle habits…a bad back, an
aging frame, core muscles that seem
to have been decored, made a new
firmer bed a necessity,

when we called 1-800-Mattress, we two
social security retirees, were shocked,
shocked! at the hole in our budgets
such an expenditure required.  We would
be forced to survive on bread (brioche)
and water (Pelligrino) for weeks, our only
condimentable affordable would be margarine,
a pseudo butter made in chemical factories.

so, she refused.

I sank into deep despair, for who could deny
her finger pointing “J’accuse” where responsibility
for this truly lay (lie?).

marriage counselors demanded exorbitant premium
prepayments, Medicare said ha ha, and United Health
Care was united in their ***** opposable *******
but eloquent “Mais Non!”

As I write this, Climate Comservationists have confirmed
my sinking side is now receding at a rate of 4 cm/year.
The implicit implication was at the Great Melt Flood of 2050
that was coming to sink us, I would not be quietly floating down
the Hudson River out to a South Pacific isle, but would join Jason Bourne in the green crystal clear waters of the nearby East River, but unlike Jason, I can’t hold my breath for twenty minutes, ergo and ipso facto, I am doom-ed.

So I have started a GoFundMe to obtain a new airy mattress  capable of variable soft/hard differential setting on each side, with an inflatable air pumping gizmo just for the end of days.

Thanking you in advance and be assured lol your contributions will remain not anonymous.

Yours, Extra, Sincerely,

Ogdiddynash (Ogdiddynatsch)

upon being invited to add to a collection here called Brokenness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He he
** **
Ha ha

it has been awhile
that I recv'd an invitation
to add to anything
or join a club,
just like Groucho (Marx)
worth being invited to...

but when yours arrived,
I chuckled and jived,
for this broken biz
be an area of expertise,
about which I gladly can opine,
since most of which I contact,
is inevitably in that state demised,
marriage, children and other trifles

so to the topic at hand, let say but this,
if not eloquently, then perhaps,
gravely, for that is where the
broken pieces oft call home
or cemetarily. a final resting place...

perhaps you were unaware,
there are 449 poems in attendance,
where the word brokenness
doth appear
in this sanctuary of broken children
and adults too,
easy discovered in the memory of
Hello Poetry

but this will not be, I hope, the
four hundred and fiftieth
as I decided to nomenclature this oeuvre
as Brokeness, with but a single N,
since a good N
can be hard to find,
why use two
when one will do?

if a faithful ecrivant thee be,
you won't be shocked that there are
so many Brokenness in this world,
the dictionary doth recognize its multiplicity
as a word legit, accepting as a plurality*

brokennesses!

which is a whole lot of broke

so let us poets to the process repair,
with a tikkun here, a tikkun there,
a tikkun everywhere

so that the healing never ends
and that someday we will delete
all words of humanity in disrepair,
let the broken be the unbroken,
and let's all say amen
and get started...

Ogdiddynash

I am nearing seventy,
my woman, has me, surpassed.
that hallmark of difference,
is a race I can’t catch her up,
so always on the lookout for ways,
ways to equalize the difference.

laying in bed on a beautiful
Tuesday, (renamed Twosday)
romantic muse-marveling how
an ordinary weekday came to be
so spectacular, the senses are
keening, preening, as the warm
loving feelings upping with sun,
rising, and my eyes welling tears,
of youthful gratefulness and love

so
I propose we get matching tattoos
to lock in this storied moment historical.

She smiles.
Stealthy moves as if to bed exit,
when with a sudden twist of fate,
reverses with one of the three pillows,
her in-bed-reading-backup-accompanists,
no pretense, she tries to beat me to near-death.

Later.
She inquires.
“What tattoo exactly did I have in mind?”

Till Death Do Us Part
(inside a heart, optional).

She snorts.
“That can be arranged, if you get more deranged!”

from now on my passing thoughts of loving celebration,
gonna just keep on passing by, except for maybe, just,
tattoos of chocolates, a money saving device, so many
occasions useful, now you understand this poem’s entitlement.

Ogdiddynash

the permanent shaving cut (why god made humans cut)

~for my father~

in the class of men
who need a scrubbing shave
I am, a twice a day him-hymnal

to keep the face pliant,
the cheeks smoothied,
in case some young children
come visiting, needing kissing,
by a funny-foolish Poppy

hell, I shave before I go to bed
cause I sleep shirtless,
my chin’s scruff cuts my shoulder
that badly, that here I am, awoken,
writing ******* poetry at 5:09am

but the specific cut requesting a poem
all for its lonesome is actually a newlywed pinch,
where the straying, whirring blades grabbed ahold
of the soft tissue flesh beneath the eyes,
where the no-sleep, permanently black stained “circles” live,
those tree rings of the human body

shaving cuts...what’s the big deal!

this one painful, sending out a weather alert to the brain, saying:

“Hello old friend, this red busted blood cell,
that’s me, is now a permanent resident,
a red badge of stupidity (yours),
a forever face fixture that will be
a pallbearer at your funeral,
jump into your grave with you,
for one last final deep dive drive-by screaming”

so now when I shave,
this perfect red light signal of a cautionary tale,
smiling remindingly to stick to the round and fleshy fat parts,,
pale red cheekiness where the only natural indentation are
two **** dimples - the ones no longer visible,
under the stubble of a life now measured in
too many decades

why do we cut ourselves?

(now grow serious)

not for fashion,
a scratcher beards an even greater skin-ny irritant,
this human gesture, this marker of the
daily changing leaves coloring,
this forced to mirror-address
who is that person vision we’ve never before met,
with ridged furrowed forehead,
and every day older markings appliqués,
summarizing a race to some ending,
that pulling weeds from the ground
or the **** grounds of your face,
is endlessly pointless but necessary,
a god given way to say fool!
you’ve been given a mo’ day,
and another night, wake up,
do something useful

kiss those babies too much,
write many short poems,
do a goodun,
remember,
this day,

for when you see that red dot mark of living,
it’s just another signage of closer to dying,
no use in denying, use this memory well
to make yourself attractively useful and

maybe,
some other human apparition might
come along and you’ll be reminded
smooth is better n’ gruff,
and thus shaving
helps perpetuate
the species.

Ogdiddynash