“Have Another Fall, Pratt!”

(March 25, 2018)


Not “cracked ribs,” maybe

even worse: pulled away from

the cartilage – it hurts!*


  • (Separated ribs playing rugby and it’s just like that, then.  Getting up from a chair much less out-of-bed a trial.  Guilty, you honor!  I plead six weeks I fear. Got whole “cage” wrapped in a brace. Krestol salve on the skinned knee and hand – I am amazed so little damage when I tripped at Oh-Dark-Thirty (4:45 a.m.) crossing a street undergoing repair at the intersection of 15th and Elm and I so missed the step up to the crossing street’s pavement:
  • Suddenly I found myself in a shallow dive onto dirt and macadam pavement – the camera bag sprawled and so did I. Both hands outstretched as I recall as I twisted to keep the left side out of the ruckus – stones, sticks, partial slabs of not-yet-picked-up pavement.  I know the drill.  Falling and I are old friends.  I rolled into the fall and flopped onto my back. Nice trees.  Glad it’s so dark and I did not call out or went dead.  Let’s debate that latter.  Check for coppery-tasting blood, J. You know the drill. Eech. Ugh. Dirt and all. Quitcherbitchin’ and do it.  Oh, good.  just dirt on the forehead and all above that seems just stupid not stupid-and-squashed.  Shoulders, arms, hands work. Ooops, one hand, the left does not like me any more.  Well, whose would? Know any near 70-year-olds whose body lying on a ruined street awaiting un-ruin would clap joyfully over the fall?  Me neither.
  • I’m an expert at falling, turning, stumbling and even crashing. Mostly, ’cause I am oversupplied with arrogant self-awareness and a big dish of body-control sometimes supped but often ignored.  Take the fall on elbows, forearms, hands and knees.  J – maybe the road-facing chest will take a bit of softening if you swing the empty camera bag under your fall – better a shredded heavy-duty bag than a heavy body.  Sounds good. Do it.  I don’t remember but when – two or three aeons afterward I saw the dirt and dust marks on one side of the bag that matched my shorts, socks and left knee I guess I made the move in time.  I recalled having a little trouble negotiating the lip of the pavement at 15th after climb-stumbling awkwardly up the incline from ruined Elm to the shelf of 15th just before the pavement of that well-remembered street resumed.  I debated a nano- or three nano-seconds whether best to launch into a shallow dive or try to “sprinter’s block” race to an upright stance.  Vetoed immediately: I could not see my way – Hey! See? Where are my eyes? My glasses? Did I break the broken beasties?  Too much to worry about now, we are going down, Captain.  Prepare for crash. Now!
  • I am sure my hands are bloody and crusted with marl-mud and bits of strewn street.  My knees? Maybe that’s why I decline three repeated attempts to stand.  Can I stand? May I stand? Go back and rest a bit and think this through.  You just took a tumble – and no one ’round to applause.  Quit laughing! Now. It hurts to laugh.  Oh, no. Not the ribs! Again!  Last time was mid-season in second year of rugby – and no one else on team ready to play hooker.  That was a tale I’d tell if my ribs would quit trying to convince me they were broke – at least one. Not coughing up blood, so that’s a relief. For now.  Okay, you convinced me.  roll onto your front and try the knee-first hands-down standing stand.  Okay, again.  You remember how, doncha?  Quit pestering me.  I got hours to sunup and I won’t mind the embarrassment.  Wanna bet? Okay, one more time. Hey. I got the knee down…yep: the right one’s got a big ol’e scrape and looks raw red in the streetlight.  Dang! That rib just under the heart hurts every time I move. So? Just God’s way of saying “Pain proves you’re alive, Boy. Quitcherbitchin! Yessir! Right away Sir.
  • I had had worse growing up. And hope to have worse again.  And maybe one day even grow up.
  • The dive I am sure has saved me a lot.  Oh, there. By the camera bag, just a half-crawl-sprawl away is my daylight – nightlight – glasses intact and shiny reflecting streetlight right at me.  Hate to hunt up my polarized sunglasses out of my shorts to try to walk to the morgue -or hospital – to get my hurts attended.  Thank you Lord.  I will tend to standing up in a moment or twelve, soon as my ribs quit telling me to baste and turn. Okay?
  • There’s More but right now my ribs hurt again. OK, more then they did a few hours ago.  So I will hie me hence to the manse and see if I got supper ready in my absence.  Maybe I will see y’all Sattidey and finish the sprawling tale of a toe-twisted J and his brand new proof that God loves him.

“It Starts About Two”

it starts about two*

when crystal memory shards

come by to poke me


accidents and I well known

tried to drink the atlantic…


  • (At two-years of age I walked into a freak wave along The Maryland Shore, just outside Chesapeak Bay and the memory came to me as I winced in thoracic pain as I tried gingerly to recline on the couch wearing a hasty-wrapped workman’s lower-back brace device hiked up high under my breast near the separated ribs just below my heart. That’s key to this piece.  It happened at Oh Dark Thirty at the supposed intersection of 15 Street and the Putative Elm Avenue where the final stages of Sanford’s re-pipe of stormwater drains is winding up – hopefully. I stubbed a toe Saturday last and tripped into a low sprawl, camerabag under my torso – with no camera inside, thankfully – and took a while to gather stock.  These are but too bookends to calamity and me. And no Jane upon which to fling blame. My feet “Knew” their way and I was busy counting snarks until I began my award-winning sprawl. Of such I shall try to render more later.  Maundy Thursday is my first return to downtown Sanford’s library/internet and much – not really: a boy in pain has pursuits above and beyond mere writing in a notebook in a chair too uncomfortable anyway.  So, I shall go back a few pages to March 25 and recount the tale.)

“Got ‘Mater Plants For Sale?”

(March 26, 2018)


‘You got ta’mater

plants f’sale?’ she asked hungrily,

full two months too late”*


  • (I don’t “sell” either my vegetable or even floral produce or plants. No tomatoes, cucumbers, collards, kale, onions, herbs, peppers, beans or peas or sweet potatoes – leaves or tubers – or many other in-dirt or containerized plants, I said to the lady who obviously connected me with the garden on Maple.  I do give excess to family and friends and the few who stop to chat and either ask or not. But the plants?  The tomatoes – mostly grape and cherry with some San Marzano and a few Better Boys and such all were “seeded” in December and by now are in dirt houses either in containers or as volunteers in as-yet unworked patches.  A few more remain.  Even more seeds are ready for the process of wetting and letting sit, covered by damp paper towels in shallow plates, to sprout for a late Spring/Summer in-shade location for a second crop.  I told the lady to stop me in early May to see if I have some “extras.” But bring your own containers or newspapers with garden or compost soil already inside: I do not have enough to go handing them out.  She looked pained.  I wonder why?  I doubt she might figure out how much I’d charge for a precious-to-bring-to size Cherokee Purple or Zebra or other heirloom that for Florida is not an easy task to take to fruition?)

“Paris ‘Weather Meet’ Dooms” Tanka 1017

(March 26, 2018)


Paris ‘Weather Meet’s’

failure by signers’ willful

ignoring the pact


means one-hundred fifty mil

dead says New York magazine!*


  • (The New York Magazine article’s author posits that the failure of signatory nations to fulfill their Paris Weather Accords obligations – presumably even without a U. S. signatory status – will mean “Twenty Five Holocausts” because those scoff-signer nations are nowhere near meeting their pledged redistributive goals in terms of greenhouse gas emission-reductions (or contributions in cash, presumably which is what they wanted Barack Obama’s signature and following logically Hillary Clinton’s acceptance of U. S. obligation to stem the soon swamping tide of Global Warming catastropies.  Assuming a modest six million per “holocaust” I extrapolate 150,000 million dead.  Does Al Gore know.  Maybe he can make another Oscar-winning movie in conjunction with Michael Moore? Fortunately President Donald John Trump pulled our nation’s chestnuts – and gold – out of that opulent transfer-fire and the supposed receipt by “have not” nations – rather fund administrators and trustees I suspect – will have to be made up elsewhere.  Perhaps a special levy on the “have” nations by the U.N. to make up the shortfall?  Someone’s gotta pay for all them dead bodies littering The World, now, don’t they.  Why, just take in the stench!  Oh. That’s from the fertilizer left by magazine authors and readers, not actual dying-by-warming people. Sorry.  Maybe next week.)