Miércoles con los Amigos Invisibles vol 2.

Just come back from the bank. Nice folks over there, very helpful. Also just ate my Nutri-Grain bar that I threw into my bag before leaving the apartment this morning. Thinking my low blood sugar levels may be part of the reason for my mental state, which is pissy.

I say mental state, not mood, because my overall emotional tone is good. Had the day off yesterday, went to the store, spent the last of my money. Worried about running out of things. But I believe we'll squeak through this week, and I get paid next Tuesday.

Earlier today I saved-as-draft one of those rant posts that ends up with me yelling and swearing at myself. I'm frustrated not only at our poverty, which makes everybody edgy, but at my mental poverty. I think it was partially inspired by a dream Pearl had recently and told me about yesterday. She dreamed she had stolen a little bit of money from Mom and concealed it within a big bag of her own money. We agreed that money in the dream represented mana, psychic mojo, but it got me thinking about mojo and money and how little of either I've got for my own use right now.

Poetry came back to me: I ain't come back to poetry. I know what side the holdup is on. Never had this problem before. But then again I've never been this responsible before. And keeping my job and my home life afloat consumes more of me than I would prefer to give; I haven't got it left to give to poetry. So I'm frustrated, and as we all know, frustration leads to atrophy.

When I try to write now it all comes out trite now.
I play the big fish but the suckers won't bite now.
I'm feeling the burn and I learned it all right now.
Got paper and pen but I can't find the light now.
I got introduced in a dream to the shark.
Got more teeth than me and swims mean on the dark.
So too introduced to the great big machine,
but he can't parse my circuits; I ain't running clean.
There are bugs in my system; I know all their names.
When they break down, I miss 'em. They aren't to blame
for me throwing my towel in and losing my cool.
From my throat to my bowels I been playing the fool.
Like I don't know it's too much for me to require
both the hard hands of work and the wings of desire
to clench hard and sweep open, both at the same time.
Doled out wallet and heart to the very last dime,
so it's not a surprise that I can't do jack shit.
I give up on this nonsense. I'm finished. I quit.