Tombstone for a Boomer
Decide to promote myself on spacebook, blowtube, twitface, plus a scramble of other platforms. Post vids of myself reciting poetry while dancing in mini-skirt, pantyhose and platform shoes on a plywood stage in the backyard.
My wife apologizes to her friends, “Just a stage he is going through. All the poets do such things these days.”
I don’t have any friends. Just a buncha links through her sites. Which I spam with cartfuls of pitiful bullshit.
Today I’m downloading a rondeau about turning ninety as the World War II Centennial rolls around. A last surviving Boomer still sputtering. Maybe I can re-enact at Treblinka an ancient gypsy rousted off the boxcar, handed a rock touted as a bar of soap, herded into the shower.
Though by then I’ll likely already be cremated; given the cheapie on the pittance Social Security awards for your having kicked the can, thereby exiting the rolls. Unless by then I’m driving a Rolls, having made a mint self-promoting on Bumblr, Twaddle, BlinkedIn, whatever other overkill weakens me.
I watch on the screen, week by week, day by day, the minutes go by. Waiting for that nano-second when the farm I buy. Meantime killing time sweating to fill the net with my wind.
This entry was posted on Sunday, July 28th, 2013 at 11:00 am and is filed under Honest Publishing Blog, Writings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.