how did this happen? how did i get here so fast? nothing i do is fast.
it takes me 17 hours to eat dinner. i like to savor every moment of every thing. who knows why but i do.
50 knocked on the door when it shoulda been 30. i feel exactly as i did back then. my eyes my heart my legs my knees.
except for a mild touch of high blood pressure im in exactly the same shape in mind body and spirit.
all while eating healthy portions of fast food every. single. day. often 2-3 times a day.
my poops are regular. my weiner works. my back is fine. and my dreams are just as vivid as they were when i was seventeen.
the old noggin keeps thinking of wild twisty colorful storylines and i write about one per cent of them down.
50 was the age bukowski was discovered and his life completely changed.
he was told he could just write and no longer work. so he wrote and he wrote some of the best things youve read by him: post office, ham on rye, women. all after 50. all about four blocks from where i write you.
when you dont have to worry about the government job getting weirded out by your weird ideas the flow can flow. then you walk up the street and order some chicken and walk home with a nice greasy bag.
i think about working out. i say to myself you were in shape the first 20 years and then coasted the last half. how about seeing what you could look like now.
but i dont want people to like me because of my abs. who cares about those. i want them to smile from the crazy stuff. the wild side. the weirdness. the love.
bodies are the dumbest things ever and we know this and we know this but we fall. some of us. into that murky madness of a lie. donald trump looks like a cartoon and yet millions of people are going to give him their vote because of
his
crazy wild weird anti love.
thats what im learning from him at least. he doesnt stop letting it all out. he didnt wait till he was 50. and imagine how much better our secret stash is than his.
we are not our abs or our life savings or the pretty girls we kissed or rock shows we didnt miss.
we are not our incredible friends or our education or stories we can tell.
we are the reflection of a loving god
who has given us the freedom to make something fascinating of ourselves.
we can hoard it or hide it or share it or help others with theirs
but we are not mes we are wes
theres no accident that theres so many of us in such a small space.
we are not here to be alone.
and like reflections, when we reflect each other the mirrors do the trippiest things
into infinity and back all at once.
and everyone except for the one holding it can see.
im 50 because the universe allowed me to be 50.
im 50 because of health, which im telling you, i did nothing to help.
if anything i hurt it, i fought it, i completely took it for granted.
but god wants me to keep reflecting
clearly
or as clearly as my circus mirror can.
i am grateful for everything
i know i didnt deserve to even hear about most of it
never mind see it or be it.
if anything it was a secret message from above
saying we love you, baby.
love
you.
now lets play two.
About 24 hours ago I started 
but i dont want people to like me because of my abs. who cares about those. i want them to smile from the crazy stuff. the wild side. the weirdness. the love.
mama mia was that a rougher, different crowd from where we originally were. big, tough, fat mexican dudes, drunk from lots of things stood up and chanted for their team. some would eventually get escorted out by well-staffed security and LAPD. we saw tattooed latinas warned by security to take it easy on the profanity. we saw a huge but quiet hispanic gentleman pointed at by a grim faced guard who said, “GET DOWN HERE NOW!” he obliged and never returned to his seat.
i was right that the Cubs’ bat could not remain cold for three nights in a row