rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


There was so little on sale at the stores this week that I didn't even have to do any triage to stay within the constraints of my budget. The triage will come when I prepare meals. One store did have artichokes cheap, so I got four of them. They will make nice late afternoon snacks to take the edge off my appetite so that a couple of nights I can substitute a can of soup and some bread and butter, or a few of the tortillas I have to use up, for dinner.

The sky is still mostly cloudy, though that didn't keep the temperature from going up just a bit today. The night will stay chilly, and I believe it is getting foggy in the valley now, but we won't get any fog up here. More's the pity. A nice fog always cheers me up quite a bit. But the mostly cloudy sky is giving the moon a rumply canvas to paint, and that's nice too, though as cold as it is I won't spend much time watching it.

It ought to be getting warmer tomorrow, and there should be more sunshine, but I don't know if it will be quite warm enough to open the windows for long. Even if it doesn't get very warm maybe I'll open one window, as Portia likes to sit on the sill and sniff the outdoor air. I'd kind of like to do that myself, but I'm too big to fit on a window sill. On the other hand, I don't have to lick my butt, or do my laundry with my tongue, so maybe I'll just stay human. At least until those artichokes are gone. I doubt I'd enjoy artichokes as a cat.

Sunday Verse

No Return

by William Matthews

I like divorce. I love to compose
letters of resignation; now and then
I send one in and leave in a lemon-
hued Huff or a Snit with four on the floor.
Do you like the scent of a hollyhock?
To each his own. I love a burning bridge.

I like to watch the small boat go over
the falls—it swirls in a circle
like a dog coiling for sleep, and its frail bow
pokes blindly out over the falls' lip
a little and a little more and then
too much, and then the boat's nose dives and butt

flips up so that the boat points doomily
down and the screams of the soon-to-be-dead
last longer by echo than the screamers do.
Let's go to the videotape, the news-
caster intones, and the control room does,
and the boat explodes again and again.


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