It says I'm ninety-two

[tectak]

I guess it must be true, I got a card. Says I'm ninety-two.
I'm not gonna say "What happened, how'd I get here?"
I know how I got here, but I'm not tellin'.
Some guys died before I got chance to make'em friends;
you know, old friends is what I mean. Old friends.
I'll tell you how I got here. I got old. Bit by bit.
Some people die while they get old. Not me.
I asked asked Billy once, about getting old, he was...
I forget exactly...but he was still young. He was older than me,
so I guess I listened to him. He's dead now but he said
he couldn't die young. Oh yes, now I remember. Sixty three.
I thought that was old but Billy said he felt about eighteen.
I guess that's how it feels when you're sixty...sixty-three, he was.
I was eighteen. Billy died growing old. Not me. I'm ninety-two
but I sure as hell don't feel like I felt when I was eighteen;
maybe thirty. Yea. I feel like I'm thirty. Thing is,
I'm slowing down. Socks...yea. Socks are difficult.
Got a lady comes in and helps me with my socks.
Don't know if she comes every day. If I ain't wearing socks
by supper, she didn't  call round. I'm sockless today
so she mustn't have called but sometimes I get my own on.
Socks, that is...then I get  cramps...and I'm slowing down.
I know this...doesn't matter how slow you walk,
it's the damned road that's movin' on. You go to sleep
in the garden seat...when you wake up you're back indoors.
I didn't plan on being ninety-two. Or maybe I did,
but it was a bad plan. You have to plan; listen, you have to plan.
One day, you might wake up in  the garden seat. Warm,
it'll be warm. Dark, maybe. Not like night, though.
Funny, it's never like night. I sleep good. In my sleep
it's always daytime. I dream of Billy sometimes.
He told me once that he felt like he was eighteen.
Can't say, though, if I was dreaming or not.
If I really think about it I get tired, but I'm ninety-two...
tectak 2015

[Erthona]

Well that was an interesting ramble, typos not withstanding, withstanding. Not really up to your usual cleverness, but then really, when is anything? If this were taken under Spartan wing it might make a good filler in a stand up routine-new thing-obscene. In the sense that anything is a poem these days, it is a poem and in the sense that no one has any authority to judge any art as bad, it is a good poem. Of course the truth (which does not exist) would say it is neither, but that is what one gets these days a mixed bag of over-cautiousness saying nothing. Thus the "Great Nothing" is what I have to say about your "Great Nothing" except that it almost looks pretty on the page, although it doesn't and it might be something of note were it not tune deaf, although if one has a preference for sour notes as many seem to have these days, there is a veritable Debussian Symphony in which to soak. Not to find new nuggets, but to come back to the same familiar cud that one has chewed for years (I should know for I have chewed such a cud many, many times, whilst I ruminated). Still, in the end we all must die, no matter how insignificant we make our insignificant lives, for Death is no respecter of non-persons, no matter how hard we try to forget our selves and like you I have forgotten myself more times than I can remember. As you are older by a few months, you have gone where I have yet to go and as with Billy, how am I to say, what I think, you should know? Rightly spoken how can I criticize your words, for I know not if you have used the right nouns and verbs as you physically walk this arrow of time, but in the mind, in the mind we do not care, for it has no sway over us there. So let me meet you in your twenties and I will be twenty too, for the possibilities are endless what things you and I might do.

[tectak]

Well that was an interesting ramble, typos not withstanding, withstanding. Not really up to your usual cleverness, but then really, when is anything? If this were taken under Spartan wing it might make a good filler in a stand up routine-new thing-obscene. In the sense that anything is a poem these days, it is a poem and in the sense that no one has any authority to judge any art as bad, it is a good poem. Of course the truth (which does not exist) would say it is neither, but that is what one gets these days a mixed bag of over-cautiousness saying nothing. Thus the "Great Nothing" is what I have to say about your "Great Nothing" except that it almost looks pretty on the page, although it doesn't and it might be something of note were it not tune deaf, although if one has a preference for sour notes as many seem to have these days, there is a veritable Debussian Symphony in which to soak. Not to find new nuggets, but to come back to the same familiar cud that one has chewed for years (I should know for I have chewed such a cud many, many times, whilst I ruminated). Still, in the end we all must die, no matter how insignificant we make our insignificant lives, for Death is no respecter of non-persons, no matter how hard we try to forget our selves and like you I have forgotten myself more times than I can remember. As you are older by a few months, you have gone where I have yet to go and as with Billy, how am I to say, what I think, you should know? Rightly spoken how can I criticize your words, for I know not if you have used the right nouns and verbs as you physically walk this arrow of time, but in the mind, in the mind we do not care, for it has no sway over us there. So let me meet you in your twenties and I will be twenty too, for the possibilities are endless what things you and I might do.

Whatho dale,
I guess I deserved this! The veracity verse arrow hits real targets. We've been to two birthdays "parties" recently...and eightieth and a ninety-two year. This would be an amalgamation of the two except that it came to.me pre-mixed...both the old boys said much the same thing. Unprompted by the requirements of circumstance both told of sock trouble and I found this quite pointed. There's a market here for a sock installer.
The Billy is not our billy but another Billy...
I have corrected a few typos, you may find others. There will be no repeat of this unclever stuff from me...it is too hard to write. Maybe when I get old.
See you there.
Best,
tectak

[Mark A Becker]

Hi tectak-

Interestingly, I read through this one very quickly, and I'm I sure the repeating lines helped with that. If I were to write as if I were 92, I'd probably come up with something that moves in fits and starts like this.

That said, I have a neighbor who is 93, and she still works, drives, and converses completely coherently. She would be the exception to this poem's "rule", and I only bring her up because this poem made me think about her.

I find that the content is the only thing for which I have a comment, because the form "is what it is" once it gets started.

I hope this makes sense. Or maybe I'm getting too old to read things clearly.

... Mark

[tectak]

Hi tectak-

Interestingly, I read through this one very quickly, and I'm I sure the repeating lines helped with that.  If I were to write as if I were 92, I'd probably come up with something that moves in fits and starts like this.

That said, I have a neighbor who is 93, and she still works, drives, and converses completely coherently.  She would be the exception to this poem's "rule", and I only bring her up because this poem made me think about her.

I find that the content is the only thing for which I have a comment, because the form "is what it is" once it gets started.

I hope this makes sense.  Or maybe I'm getting too old to read things clearly.

... Mark

Hello mark,
Yes, I hung easily on to this bit of prose. Breathless narration cuts things up in to neat chunks and all I had to do was recall. I can still do that. Why bother? You didn't ask but it does beg the question...it was the socks. I just couldn't get over the socks. Of all the stirrings in the matured mash we ultimately use to think with, the socks were an important indicator of reality...and yes, the ninety year old in this invasive text DOES still work. He drives a bloody tractor.
Best,
unclever tectak

[Mark A Becker]

tectak-

The socks are the critical element to this poem. Once you reach a certain age, the reality of socks sinks in. That simple element lends the credulity that this piece must have.

Tractor, eh? Boy does that sound familiar. That tractor should be in this poem.

.... Mark

[QDeathstar]

Tectak, as someone who finds most of your poems mysterious, I have to say I enjoyed the to the point, simple clarity involved with this poem.

I guess it must be true, I got a card. Says I'm ninety-two.
I'm not gonna say "What happened, how'd I get here?"
I know how I got here, but I'm not tellin'.
Some guys died before I got chance to make'em friends;
you know, old friends is what I mean. Old friends.
I'll tell you how I got here. I got old. Bit by bit.
Some people die while they get old. Not me.
I asked asked Billy once, about getting old, he was...
I forget exactly...but he was still young. He was older than me,
so I guess I listened to him. He's dead now but he said
he couldn't die young. Oh yes, now I remember. Sixty three.
I thought that was old but Billy said he felt about eighteen.
I guess that's how it feels when you're sixty...sixty-three, he was.
I was eighteen. Billy died growing old. Not me. I'm ninety-two
but I sure as hell don't feel like I felt when I was eighteen;
maybe thirty. Yea. I feel like I'm thirty. Thing is,
I'm slowing down. Socks...yea. Socks are difficult.
Got a lady comes in and helps me with my socks.
Don't know if she comes every day. If I ain't wearing socks
by supper, she didn't  call round. I'm sockless today
so she mustn't have called but sometimes I get my own on.
Socks, that is...then I get  cramps...and I'm slowing down. these last three lines drag on a bit too long for me. In the beginning the speaker jumps from thought to thought to thought... but then gets into a whole conversation about socks. The poem captures my attention quite well in the beginning, but I'm growing tired of socks... you also mention how he as memory problems and mental capacity issues... but yet he's got a lot of sock talk going on.
I know this...doesn't matter how slow you walk,
it's the damned road that's movin' on. You go to sleep
in the garden seat...when you wake up you're back indoors. these last two lines made me chuckle. I do think that there is an overuse of ellipses
I didn't plan on being ninety-two. Or maybe I did, Even if, instead of or maybe?
but it was a bad plan. You have to plan; listen, you have to plan.
One day, you might wake up in  the garden seat. Warm,
it'll be warm. Dark, maybe. Not like night, though.
Funny, it's never like night. I sleep good. In my sleep im not quite sure what you are trying to convey here or how it ties into the socks that most of the poem was dedicated too. I'm starting to feel like there might not be a payoff.
it's always daytime. I dream of Billy sometimes.
He told me once that he felt like he was eighteen.
Can't say, though, if I was dreaming or not. oh jeez, the poem should have definitely ended here.

If I really think about it I get tired, but I'm ninety-two...
tectak 2015

[tectak]

Tectak, as someone who finds most of your poems mysterious, I have to say I enjoyed the to the point, simple clarity involved with this poem.

I guess it must be true, I got a card. Says I'm ninety-two.
I'm not gonna say "What happened, how'd I get here?"
I know how I got here, but I'm not tellin'.
Some guys died before I got chance to make'em friends;
you know, old friends is what I mean. Old friends.
I'll tell you how I got here. I got old. Bit by bit.
Some people die while they get old. Not me.
I asked asked Billy once, about getting old, he was...
I forget exactly...but he was still young. He was older than me,
so I guess I listened to him. He's dead now but he said
he couldn't die young. Oh yes, now I remember. Sixty three.
I thought that was old but Billy said he felt about eighteen.
I guess that's how it feels when you're sixty...sixty-three, he was.
I was eighteen. Billy died growing old. Not me. I'm ninety-two
but I sure as hell don't feel like I felt when I was eighteen;
maybe thirty. Yea. I feel like I'm thirty. Thing is,
I'm slowing down. Socks...yea. Socks are difficult.
Got a lady comes in and helps me with my socks.
Don't know if she comes every day. If I ain't wearing socks
by supper, she didn't  call round. I'm sockless today
so she mustn't have called but sometimes I get my own on.
Socks, that is...then I get  cramps...and I'm slowing down. these last three lines drag on a bit too long for me. In the beginning the speaker jumps from thought to thought to thought... but then gets into a whole conversation about socks. The poem captures my attention quite well in the beginning, but I'm growing tired of socks... you also mention how he as memory problems and mental capacity issues... but yet he's got a lot of sock talk going on.
I know this...doesn't matter how slow you walk,
it's the damned road that's movin' on. You go to sleep
in the garden seat...when you wake up you're back indoors. these last two lines made me chuckle. I do think that there is an overuse of ellipses
I didn't plan on being ninety-two. Or maybe I did, Even if, instead of or maybe?
but it was a bad plan. You have to plan; listen, you have to plan.
One day, you might wake up in  the garden seat. Warm,
it'll be warm. Dark, maybe. Not like night, though.
Funny, it's never like night. I sleep good. In my sleep im not quite sure what you are trying to convey here or how it ties into the socks that most of the poem was dedicated too. I'm starting to feel like there might not be a payoff.
it's always daytime. I dream of Billy sometimes.
He told me once that he felt like he was eighteen.
Can't say, though, if I was dreaming or not. oh jeez, the poem should have definitely ended here.

If I really think about it I get tired, but I'm ninety-two...
tectak 2015

You are all obsessed by socks. Or you will be if you live to ninety-two
Best and thanks.
You made an old man very happy..He says thanks,too.
tectak