Legs, and Diabetes in the retina, and Photographic Portraiture

I missed two doctor's appointments today
- warning signals of imminent total collapse
of internal personal psychic organization.

Well, if I have to limp thru the holy days
to the Feast Day of the Nativity, then
I shall limp. But crawl I will not do, will
not crawl. Limit set; boundary fixed between
diverse psychic energies that all become
volatile at once thru the Autumnal Procession
from Sterling's death by lite-ning ten days
into October and Ruth's death by pills and
plastic bag, Mom whisked herself away
at the end of the first week of November.

I get some chance to recoup myself, draw
my psychic energies into the corral
of organized emotional order. So hard to do,
so hard even to think adequately.

This is the way
I should like to go, if I become debilitated
but not yet dead.



But I must let go of my Christmas and enter
into the Christmas that the Church tries to
re-center from the shops and gifts, to the rites
of memory and true presence of the Incarnate
θηεο (theos, in Greek) Deus (Latin) Dios (Spanish)
God in English, YHWH in the ancient prevowel
Hebrew writing of the Bible.

I missed two doctor's appointments today, and
the Photo ID specialist who parachutes into
the Woodgren Community Centre to click the camera
and produce a legal-tender picture of you, but
I have to present my birth certificate, when
I have no birth certificate to present.

I was born July 30, 1940 in Wilkes-Barre,
Pennsylvania, USA, so I was always told
growing up. Here I am, all too apparent to myself,
but an undocumented person because I reached
sixty-five years of age
without proper documentation.

Feeling better. I didn't get to this doctor, or
that, to a photo-opportunity that would demand
to see my non-existent birth certificate, but
I did get to write a poem. Of sorts.