rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Balminess took over the afternoon, pushing the cool morning away, and then rushed into something distressingly close to sultriness. The foretaste of summer left me craving watermelon, but I didn't think to buy one. But since melons haven't yet reached either their peak flavor or their bottom price perhaps it's just as well. I'd likely have been expensively disappointed.

The would have been a second disappointment on top of the one resulting from the failure of PBS to have English people murder one another tonight. Because of the holiday all they are showing is music celebrating the killing of foreigners by Americans. As far as I know no actual slaughter will accompany this music, which is also just as well, since I am a firm believer that, in order to provide maximum dramatic interest, murder should be personal, not corporate.

Other channels are also arranging their programming around the holiday. If I wanted to watch war movies, tonight would be an embarrassment of riches. The day's other signature offering, cars going around a track over and over again very fast and occasionally crashing, is also not to my taste. On the whole this might be my least favorite holiday of the year. It has nothing to offer me but barbecuing and drinking, and barbecuing and drinking alone is a bore.

Maybe next year an Englishman will come and murder one of my neighbors. I can always hope.

Sunday Verse

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

by Adam Zagaajewski

Try To Praise The Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.


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