Turning 40 is ostensibly nothing more than being alive the day after you were 39, but 40 is different, divisible by ten for starters, and ages that are divisible by ten tend to bug.  20 is awful because you’re not 21, and every one after is another ten year chunk torn off the road to the grave.  I won’t let it affect me that way.  It can’t, really, since I live my life day by day under the dread of inevitability, which reminds me of the dream I had last night, or at least one small bit of it.  High storm clouds were rolling in, and I was sitting on a bench under an awning, facing a vast expanse of blacktop.  The wind picked up, blowing at me head on, and then the sound of wings pounding the air hit my ears, and I looked up to see wave after wave of pigeons by the thousands flying fast with the wind at their tails.  I grabbed a large piece of cardboard and shielded myself as the pigeons unloaded, bombing the earth in runny turds, exploding across the parking lot in slurpy splashes of white.  The pigeons passed and there was a moment of calm before a fresh rain of wind driven bird shit struck my cardboard shield like blasts from a paint ball gun.  I faired well under my cover, but the cardboard wasn’t large enough to offer complete protection, and I took a splat to my right shin, on my black denim jeans.

The dream is a harbinger of things to come.  The passage of time is inevitable, and so is getting shit on.  It is in that spirit that I’m turning this blog over to the poetical muse… for the next 365 days.  That’s right, 365 days of poems.  Ouch.  It’ll be all over when I’m 41, and by that time I will be far beyond giving a pigeon’s shit about being 40.


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