| Sorry About Your Holiday, Mr. Lincoln |
[Feb. 12th, 2012|11:57 pm]
rejectomorph
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It's a warmer rain that's falling now than is wont to fall in winter, but as it's as wet as usual, it will serve. The daffodils, I'm sure, all green spikes and about to bloom as they are, would not complain, even if complaining were a thing daffodils did ever do. Did no rain fall, and did I forget (I'm so forgetful anymore) to water the daffodils, then they would die, and even then they would not complain, even if etc, etc. The rain has undoubtedly saved them from that fate. They would be grateful, were gratitude a thing daffodils did ever show.
Me, I won't complain either, and complaining is a thing I do with with alacrity; with the greatest of ease; at the drop of a cookie I was about to enjoy, for example. Daffodils and I, we are unlike in so many ways, yet this we share in common: neither they nor I will complain that this rain is warmer than one expects one's winter rains to be. It's enough that it be rain, and that it nourishes the soil, the plants, the ear, the mild winter night.
Sunday Verse
Calendar
by Tristan Tzara
Bottle with wings of red wax in bloom
my calendar leaps medicinally
astral of futile improvement
dissolves by the lit candle of
my principal nerve
I love office accessories
for example
fishing for little gods
gift of color and farce
for the odorous chapter where nothing
matters at all
and the muscle bird screeches
with your clenched fingers stretching
out and
staggering like eyes
the flame calls to clasp
are you there under the blanket
the stores spit out the employees
midday
the wheel carries them off
the bells of the trams cut the strong sentence
wind desire sonorous vault of
insomnia
tempest temple
the waters cascading
and the sudden leap of vowels
in eyes that stare at the points
of abysses
to come to surpass lived to conceive
call the light human bodies
like matches
in all the fires of autumn
vibrations and trees
sweat and petroleum.
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