rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Eleven, Day Twelve

Saturday was pretty much a blur of web pages and the humming of the air conditioner. Around sunset I went to the mailbox and found that this month's local coupon book had been delivered. There are bound to be pizza coupons in it. After that I managed to summon enough energy to take a shower, though it was exhausting, which it always is on hot days anymore. I dropped the AC temperature another two degrees, but it didn't help much. But at least I feel better now, and my head doesn't itch.

As I ate my last donut Saturday morning I was thinking of going to Grocery Outlet Sunday, but I doubt I'll have the energy to do so. It's still too damned hot, and my stamina drains away by the day. At this point I'm not really expecting it to return even when the weather cools off. For dinner I got near-ambitious and made a package of stovetop macaroni and cheese, then ate all of it. I'm sure to still be feeling stuffed when I wake up this afternoon.

As I was adjusting the water temperature for my shower some poor spider got caught in the flow and went down the drain. Maybe it will be able to get onto the upper part of the pipe and survive down there, but I don't know. I feel bad about it. Spiders are among the many species that would probably be better off without humans on the planet. Maybe the coronavirus will end up giving them their paradise back.

Cramp in my jaw and neck after yawning. I hate that. I should get some sleep, but first there are dinner dishes still to do. If I can keep my eyes open long enough.




Sunday Verse




The Confession of an Apricot


by Carl Adamshick


I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.

This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.

This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.

I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.

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