Confessions of a Hungry Ghost

               Retirement is a Ghetto. Here in the West we too have a very lonely impoverished third world. The reader in me has outgrown the game. My game no longer fits the products to be sold. The glamour is gone. A flower drops it's petals in hopes to fruit, but maybe never. Along with the failings of maturity, we can come to a uselessness of age. My street fills with a circling crowd. Everyone is a Hungry Ghost. Words failed to have meaning. And if I am still touching with you, this moment never revolved around me. It never was about me. I've made good on my offerings with all the ritual ablutions for purification. Massage Therapies, Reading Technologies, Sensitive Observational Science; my jobs are all becoming ritually misunderstood, Ouch! My work never was about me. I've learned to read for God's Sake, and I've learned to write for yours. And though I have loved every minute, the time has come to say good bye to all these shimmering dreams. I'm not sad. I'm just a little angry. a hunger lives on within me, and yet the world dies a little everyday.

                 I am not alone!