Tuesday, September 22, 2020

Greetings From Roseburg, Oregon: The 911 Operator Asked "How Did I Know He Is Schizophrenic?" & A Tarnished Jewell & 3 Poems---Both Serious and Doggerel

Hello from Roseburg, where I am writing from my Motel 6 suite after driving nearly 400 hundred miles.  Where I am going?  Arcata, California where "she-who-can't-be-named" is waiting, already mad as a Brooklyn hornet because I forgot to bring along a promised backpack.  My only excuse, which is viable, is my state of near exhaustion.  Too busy for one aging human but tsk! tsk! a red and yellow casket, I have much to do but not enough time which explains why I have pulled myself away, to both get the work done and enjoy her sometimes sour yet sweet company.  I hope to be submitting my newest book soon. To say the least I gotta get it on before I expire from pure frustration driving me mad.

Is everyone nuts?

Most recently I find myself encountering the seriously mentally ill, be they inside or outside the cab, whether they are "secret agents" working for the Russians or passengers pursued by an entire town's populace or merely walking down the middle of the street defying anyone and everyone, I find them everywhere I go.  When speaking of pandemics, this category, the extremely mentally ill appear part of a national health crisis, these individuals disabled to the point of dysfunction, clearly needing professional intervention.   

Meeting one such person walking southbound on northbound 14th Avenue NW, barefoot and having no intention of giving way, I stopped as he proceed to step onto 1092's hood like some giant staircase, spiting upon the windshield, then leaping off onto the street once again proceeding southbound.  Calling 911 I got the now  commonplace bewildered operator asking unhelpful questions, and after telling her the guy was schizophrenic, she asked "how did I know," but before I could tell her I saw the gentleman collide with another car, the driver flying out and throwing rocks at this crazy person blocking the road.  

Reporting this I hung up, saying that "I've had enough of this!", the operator not understanding taxi is a rolling psychiatric ward where I see it all, having seen too much and tried of watching something unending: the ongoing saga of a nation in decline.  How much do I have to take before I too am wandering down the street howling at the taxi moon?  I do not want to know the answer is my answer.  Good grief!

O My Taxi God!

Jewel, fat and not lovely, clad in black hot pants and halter top, entered my cab from a Northgate-area hotel, her pimp having told me "she'll be right down."   Dropping her off at the corner ARCO, five minutes later there she was southbound on Aurora Avenue North fishing for customers.  Having seen this reality before, I never wanted to see it again, another innocent life poured down the local gutter.  Awful.

3 Poems

                             Detached Paperback Dictionary Page 695/696 Y-Z

                                                   Are You a Zebu?

                                 Yugoslavia?  Sorry, you no longer exist but in 1991

                                  a Skopje hostel gave me soup for breakfast,

                                 and someday I will visit Zanzibar carried dockside by   

                                 a zucchini munching zebu laboring a cart,


                                 then back once more to Zurich, a repast of zwieback 

                                 and beer, local Swiss zymurgy serving an excellent brew.

Dog gone Doggerel

                            michael caputo went off to pluto if only in his own mind

                            after saying the CDC was criminal, with a communist insurrection 

                            close behind.  Now he reports not to be feeling well, and with family

                            business to attend, makes it clear it's dangerous to be of one Trump's

                            friends, caputo suddenly ill, having swallowed a wrongly prescribed

                            GOP pill!

                                                                the Godfather


                                       Herman Cain, Herman Cain, he of the pizza brain

                                       went off to Tulsa mask-less attending a Trump rally

                                               but unfortunately, deadly folly

                                        COVID-19 striking Cain, and in three weeks

                                                                sad, so sad

                                                        Herman Cain was dead

                                             but not a word from the GOP was said

                                     Mister Cain sinking from their memory like a ton of


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