One Hundred and Thirty-Third Entry

For those of you not in the know, the IRS sucks big bones.

The mermaid parade was cool this year and I didn't get too badly sunburned. Gina has some pictures of the floats (and I believe one of us, actually) here. Rode the Cyclone for the first time with Scotty. Well, not with him, as we were both "too big" to have anybody else in our car with us. Oppression.
Still working on Bad Vibes, having interesting conversations with literally everyone about evil. Is it merely the absence of good or is it an actual thing? You be the judge. As with other poems of mine, I think that my purpose here is largely to try and avoid the subject, but allow the subject to seep in anyway.

Today's poem has a title that's directly correlative to the Charles Manson story, chiefly the antics of one of his main disciples, Sadie Mae Glutz. I quote Ed Sanders in his reference to a seemingly strange statement made by her parole officer regarding her release from a marijuana charge some months before the occurrence of the murders.

"Sadie managed to pull off a charm job on the deputy probation officer up there, one David Mandel, because he wrote a sympathetic probation report, which might be called the damaged soul document. It concludes, "Your Honor, it is our opinion that incarceration for this defendant would be of little or no use to society or to herself. Even while she was still a minor, she was well on her way to a career of minor confidence-style operations, high styled prostitution and prostitution of herself in a more general sense, as an object of entertainment and vicarious satisfaction for other damaged souls.""

Essentially he was saying that although she was guilty of crimes and would continue to be a lifelong criminal, jailing her would do no good because she was a born reprobate. The thinking behind this is strange, and it intrigues me. But the poem has almost nothing to do with that, as usual.

Here's my poem:

DAMAGED SOUL DOCUMENT

Big hand on the keyboard, diagonal
striped glove, difficult to remember past
christmases, the blur of memory, several
coffee cup stains, row of imperfect circles.

Moron wanted to be the life of parties
unknown. The woods, several years ago.
Annual rememberance of empty box.
I don't want to use the word 'you' anymore.

New and selected strands of hair, mix
myself a poison, call it a potion, endless
nights on the couch, party with wine,
restless clothesline begins to flap.

My glow is not alive. Someone
has spread blankets over ourselves,
morning is sneaking up. Car won't start.
Parties are the in-between, these moments.