One day Jack just started to writer his memoir
despite the fact he could not remember much,
not much at all.
And much of what he remembered
wasn’t true,
but a little voice told him
don’t let that worry you, buddy
or don’t let that bother you, bro
or don’t let that stop you.
Jack didn’t hear so good
even to the voices in his own head.
He was that kind of guy.
Some people got him. A few.
And that was enough.
***
Usually.
And if not usually,
often enough to save his ass.
Save his ass from sleeping on a short cot
at the Salvation Army downtown
too many strangers
Or under a leafy lean-to in the woods.
Stranger strangers.
Jack never ever thought much good of camping.
Drab military murdered
what too gay boy scouts failed to birth.
That right there make a man find a job.
And a way to get to the job.
Shelter.
And maybe a bottle.
And a woman.
Okay, forget that,
but he hated camping for sure.
He was worried about early-onset dementia
until some helpful type pointed out
he’d probably passed the early part.
***
Just started and he was already
off track. Wherever that was.
He had recently been diagnosed
with Adult Attention Deficiency DIsorder
which would explain a lot
Look, a chicken!!!
and Multiple Personality Disorder.
Sounds so benign. Never lonely.
At least now when Jack did something wrong,
cause he couldn’t keep up with himself
moving from one thing to another.
Now he’d not only have somebody to blame,
he’d have an alibi or two.
There is no cure
nor any good drugs involved.
So, he didn’t even need to see a doctor.
And in the background,
he stopped to listen to Jewel singing
“Foolish Games.”