Prose Poem

ike fever or vomitting, proof that you're really not well enough to be up and about, oh well, so it goes, along with my AC's winter hum, and my burning throat, and my yearning soul, and my writing where maybe I shouldn't, and my wondering who reads this stuff anyway, anyway- that could be a positive word, as in we'll do it any way needed, but it's become meaningless to us like a fly buzzing by that we swat away, and as these words pour out I realize i feel altered, fever-ish, and I think about finishing the 100 yard journey, which I have on rental for 24 more hours, and i think about work, how there's a need to do it for many of us if we want to eat, and i think about how I really need to lose weight, and I think about weight and my heart, those two things- each in two senses, and then I sigh, and think even though I've slept so much today i need more, which reminds me of the actress who was asked on her death bed what she wanted and she said, more, and I think of Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz saying that all of life is like a lottery win; when you win the lottery you are not bothered by other things- your joy so great, and I think about my dad and how he told me that he hopes I can make work tomorrow and that if I can't they may think i just wanted a long vacation, and I think about tenderness, how it's something new-ish to dad, how much I love that fact and him, and I feel aches all over and wish for... there are no words... I'm letting you you know that i'm stopping to write now and I will not be editing.