Born Slippy

It is 2 am and I am bursting with energy, as the cliche goes. The soundtrack to Trainspotting is going its assertive way as I sit here and think of the stuff that I could be doing besides stringing words together into coherency.

There's a lot going through my mind and I know I'm in a manic mode right now. It happens every fall. It happens when I have many tasks to complete and I complete them all in record time.

It makes me think of Theodore Roethke for some odd reason.

You know he died while swimming in a suburban swimming pool.

Perhaps that will be my next anthologized Gooflerific poem:

Theodore Roethke, dead
He who wrote of the subtle
Growth and the heater knock
Achtung!

He who had the snow slowly
Ticking

And the headlights
Fading

He, admiring life but loving
Death
Who wrote the simple words
Of a whiskey's waltz.

Dead in a pool
A swimming pool
At 58 55.



Something like that, anyway.

Boy, I think I know how Franz Schubert felt.