Wednesday, July 6, 2016

How I Pulled a Muscle In my Diaphragm Writing Outsider Poetry

I pulled a muscle in my diaphragm last night finishing a poem about outsider poet Jesus Correa. Hammered out an acceptable draft around 2:30 a.m., then posted it to the Rockford Pages blog. 

After that I realized I was in pain. A weak thunderstorm had rolled through the area, and it was more bluster than action, but it was nice to have anything to cut the stifling humidity and heat that had collected in the apartment. 

Then I realized I don't even remember where the garbage dumpster was when I moved into this building. My documentation of my entire life is contained mostly in an organ that will soon explode, literally. Bummer. 

I think in this picture, the only one I ever took from this window, it is down by deli Italia. I don't remember walking down there to toss my garbage, but there it is. I think what I've circled to the left is a dumpster there for what has become the automobile museum. Funny to think a more diligent and forward looking artist might have documented this small space at least casually, but I did nothing. No one else in the Universe had that view, or was responsible for documenting it, except me, and I didn't.

But today my chores are simple and straightforward. Buy a Super Nintendo Mario Kart game, put some books in the mail, go to the post office, do a cardio workout, write a few blogs, pay some bills, and hopefully do a resistance workout.

Today they found a human body in a garbage can over one street on six block. I walk by there on occasion on my way to the post office, and unlike most people who feign surprise, I always felt like something untoward was going on behind the blackout curtains. I have seen the people out in front of the building grilling some times, and I always thought these just look like bad people capable of just about anything. 

Of course I feel that way about everyone.

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