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rejectomorph

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Great Tension [Nov. 1st, 2009|11:31 pm]
rejectomorph
The splendid full moon of mid-autumn is so high that I must bend back to look at it, straining my neck. I could drag the chaise out and look at the sky in greater comfort, but I'd have to dislodge the feral kittens who are sleeping on it. I can't stay out for long, anyway, as the aged parents might wake and need looking after. Best to let cats sleep and moon sail unwatched.

A few thin clouds share the sky with the moon, but keep their distance from it. Still, they're closer to it than I am. It makes me a bit envious of vapor.

Though I'm stuck in the house tonight, I get to leave it on Tuesday. That's when the dental hygienist gets paid to poke and prod my teeth and gums with sharp instruments. Thinking of this, I grow more envious of vapor still. It's a half hour that could surely be better spent. Not to mention several tens of dollars that could be, if not better, at least more enjoyably spent.

But teeth are things and things, alas, do fall apart. The process of decline must be stayed, however briefly. The time and money spent will prolong my ability to bite those objects the biting of which brings advantages. It might even increase the total number of full moons I get to see, eventually.

The mundane and sublime are intertwined, like the tangled shadows of nocturnal trees now brocading the moon-paled facades of our silent dwellings.




Sunday Verse


We Through Mists Descry


by Dean Young


So much energy. People buying watermelons,
boarding airplanes, watching their parents die,
and writing poems about it while above throbs
the celestial. I love how sadness can turn
celebratory, the childlike apocalyptic.
Bees return to their hives, freighted
with nectars. Shadows rise from the mud,
flinging back their wet hair and even though
this seashell is very small, it's still singing
about the void. Often great tension arises
between sincerity and rhetoricity imposing
vague profundities. Outside a man is failing
to push-start his car, albeit a very polished car.
Remember how rash Apollo was even while inventing
calculus? He did it to impress one skinny kid
milking a goat after all. Let's not forget
the head in the furnace, how burning is
laughing and laughing is also crying out.
When my father died, I saw his spirit snag
in a tree, a woman running across a parking lot,
windows full of smoke. When my father died,
his spirit snagged in a tree then left behind
its last body of plastic bags. I saw the sky
wring its blue until it cracked and oils
leaked out. I thought I was seeing everything
and could turn off the white light with a switch.
Even is it's only skin-deep, once you derive
the area, consider how the skin goes into
the ears, behind the eyes, down the throat,
that's an awful lot of beauty. Satellite dishes
in every yard, shiny shiny stars. I'd like to be
completely free but I want everything to belong to me.
You fall upon the roses of life and bleed
and people think you're a fool. But later,
at the cash bar, the disputants are transformed
by the lips of their eyes, the sex organs
of exhaled smoke. Once someone tried
to sell me a surge protector for every room.
Once a praying mantis chrysalis hatched in my desk.

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