crassy

Page Ten

friday 6 june 2008    greenfield

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message for my friend:    ~~    bill bantered

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Besides telling me the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life was an “agenda,” Crassy told me that I would have to wait for a new permanent case manager, when I had already just waited about threeweeks for Maizy-lazy. Well, now you have to wait again. So I waited yet another three weeks (very sick physically, still being harassed every bloody day by the mafia-chick, trying to play lawyer and prepare my own case for the eviction trial), and then I called a higher-up in the Northampton office of the DMH. I told this higher-up — Let’s call her Baloney, what the heck — all about my intensely stressful situation and all the things going on and what Maizy had done to make me request a new case manager and how I’d waited three weeks and had no one, not even the temporary Shirley Temple, and Baloney said she’d speak to the head guy at Greenfield. Let’s call him Turd, what the heck. (I could call them all Baloney, because they all sling it. I could call them all Whiney, because they all do it.) So next day Turd calls me and says I have to wait three more weeks for a case manager, and when I bla-bla-bla for the fourth time about everything going on and how much physical pain I’m having, and how I need a case manager now, he, in true turd fashion, gets this arrogant, nasty little tone to his voice and says “you’ll have one in three weeks.”

Well, coincidentally enough, just a short while ago I ran into an elderly woman who is in quite bad shape both physically and emotionally. I’ve known her for twenty-two years. Last night she fell and couldn’t get up for a long time, and when she finally could get up, she spent the night in the hospital. I asked her if she had help coming in, and she said only once a week. I further asked her if she couldn’t request something more frequent, so that there’d be somebody to check on her. She told me this: ” That woman Baloney says I can’t have anymore help. She says the government’s spending enough money on me.” Is this true? I don’t know, because this lady has problems and because I didn’t hear the conversation. But I think the odds are quite good that it is true.

Thread Two… the poems

Number 7                                   

 

Buffoons with bloody hands,
buttocks with little brains inside,
lies lolling all over your lips —
and they pay you for this.
Pay out dollars
to insupportable fools
for inventing rules and mantras
on how I should think,
how I should feel,
how I should live and die.
I hide a ruby inside me
for you: a secret.
Red as the blood on your hands,
hot as the blood of my children,
hot as proverbial hell.
 
 
Lava, fire and blood
for buffoons.

Update 3 August 2009: Harsh it may be, but the words “buffoons” and “buttocks-brains” still describe for me the conduct I experienced from the DMH and the CSS. When I see one of them on the streets of Greenfield, I still have a very intense panic reaction and I will not look at their faces. I’ve never felt as ignored and betrayed by any social service agency as I do by the DMH and the CSS. But the Recovery Learning Community of Western Mass runs a very close second.

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read…  Extemporaneana…   Lucked out…

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all photos, graphics, poems and text coyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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