rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Sixteen, Day Forty-Seven

Another day got away from me, and I have no idea where it went. I only remember the last part, when I made a dinner that turned out to be too large, and eating it made me logy, and then I fell asleep before midnight and didn't wake up until six o'clock in the morning. Now I've been outside and seen the scattered clouds turning pink with dawn, and felt the chilly air that still lacks the power to fully sweep the sleep from my brain, and I mourn for lost Saturday. What was it like? How did I fail to see it? What fancies consumed my attention then fell into oblivion before I could record them? These mysteries will haunt me forever. Or at least for an hour or two.

Alas for the aching emptiness no snack can fill— although I did find a 70% cacao chocolate bar I'd forgotten about, and it's pretty good. Alas anyway, just on general principals. I'm awake way too early in the morning, haven't had enough sleep, and have no idea when I'll get back to sleep, or wake up again, or do any of the things I probably ought to be doing, which I'm sure I'll only remember after it's too late to do them. And I'm eating candy for what is probably my breakfast. Could it be that I've become possessed by the ghost of Andy Warhol (I've heard that he ate candy for breakfast?)

Well why should I expect life to suddenly start making sense, when it never has before? Why should I ask rhetorical questions I have no way of answering? Hell if I know. I woke up with a memory of some trivial event from forty years ago in my head, and tried to remember something about something more significant and couldn't. That sort of thing always leaves me out of sorts. I should probably give up trying sort things out and just go back to bed and read for a while. Maybe that will make me go back to sleep and I won't have to fret about how I'm wasting my day. I'll just waste it asleep.

This is pretty good candy, though.




Sunday Verse



You People


by Nance Van Winckel


People, don’t ask me again where my shoes are.
The valley I walked through was frozen to me
as I was to it. My heavy hide, my zinc
talisman—I’m fine, people. Don’t stare
at my feet. And don’t flash the sign of the cross
in my face. I carry the Blue Cross Card—
card among cards, card of my number
and gold seal. So shall ye know I am of
the system, in the beast’s belly and up
to here, people, with your pity.

People, what is wrong with you? I don’t care
what the sign on your door says. I will go
to another door. I will knock and rattle
and if you won’t, then surely someone, somewhere,
will put a pancake in my hand.

You people of the rhetorical huh? You lords and ladies
of the blooming stump, I bend over you, taste you,
keep an eye on you, dream for you the beginning
of what you may one day dream an end to.

The new century peeled me bone-bare
like a first song inside a warbler—that bird, people,
who knows not to go where the sky’s stopped.
Keep this in mind. Do you think
the fox won’t find your nest? That
the egg of you will endure the famine?

You, you people born of moons with no
mother-planets, you who are back-lit,
who have no fathers in heaven, hear now
the bruise-knuckled knock of me. I am returned.

From your alley. From your car up on blocks.
From the battered, graffitied railcars that uncouple
and move out into the studded green lightning.

Dare you trust any longer the chained-up dogs of hell
not to bust free? Or that because your youth’s
been ransacked, nothing more will be asked of you?
If a bloody foot’s dragged across your coiffed lawn—
do not confuse me with dawn.

Now people, about the shoes: the shoes
have no doubt entered the sea
and are by now walking the ramparts of Atlantis.
I may be a false prophet, but god bless me, at least
I have something to say. I lay myself down
in a pencil of night—no chiseled tip yet,
but the marks already forming in the lead.

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