Poor Old Eric’s Body Is Dying

by Eric Chaet

Poor old Eric’s body is dying—
in slow motion, I hope.

I care for it with mercy, & as consciously as I can
trying to outwit fashionable so-called experts sanctioned
by med schools, insurance companies, government agencies
& those who cleverly pass on what was cleverly said
tho only part-true—

eating & working out as carefully as I can manage
integrating maintenance & campaigning—
tho involution of the thymus is approaching completion—
which happens to everyone who survives long enough—

we out-live our equipment, peck thru our shells—
the careers we envisioned in our youth
however successfully we’ve realized them, or not
don’t suffice any longer—
however much conditions change or remain stagnant—

& gluttony & sloth sometimes want to take over
or we imagine easier-than-possible trajectories—

but, meanwhile
Eric’s intentional effect is better thought thru
organized & deployed—

it’s a boy!
an exponentially developing infinite series!
whatever chance physical or psychological blows—

tho its path is often murky
obstructions galore, base as well as paramount—

bad programming
& the effects of ignorant & egotistical errors
from the past, & immediately, too
my own, & pre-history & history
& the struggles right now of tyrants great & small
& the tyrannies, too, of resentful victims
scrambling for scraps & unearned self-esteem—
including parts of myself not yet brought to light
& cleaned & healed & redirected & integrated—

even death has no jurisdiction!

tho I won’t live to see the endless end
as I don’t recall the beginningless beginning.


so far so good series


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