It's supposed to get windy today, but so far the air is not moving much. The night, in fact, has been uncommonly placid, other than the mockingbird's persistent songs. There hasn't even been much movement on the freeway. I could easily believe the town has been depopulated, and everyone from outside is afraid to pass through it for all the ghosts at large. I haven't seen any myself, but my eyesight has grown poor even for seeing things that are solid. Ectoplasm is probably invisible to me, especially by night.
I'm up too late again, but dinner was quite a while ago so I just fixed a bowl of popcorn for a bedtime snack. Odds of getting to sleep before daylight are now slim, but that's been the case so often lately that I might be getting used to it. If I get used to it, it's sure to change. I just hope it doesn't change for the worse.
Sunday Verse
A Night Out
by Bob Hicok
I told the waiter there was schmutz
on my machete. He informed me
I wasn’t sitting in the Yiddish section.
Being bilingual, I told the waiter
there was gunk on my machete. Oh, he apologized
then and brought me straight away
a new machete, with which I sliced
the brisket as if clearing a path
through a forest to a temple in a life
more glamorous than the four dollars
and thirty-two cents in my pocket
with which I couldn’t possibly pay
what I owe Jean-Paul Sartre for writing
“No Exit,” since walking out on that play
introduced me as if for the first time
to the moon. Try feeling crushed
by the void of existence while staring
at a waxing moon with or without
a full stomach before or after
cleaning your machete on your sleeve.
Yes, that’s a dare, a double-dog dare,
to talk as kids used to talk in a time
of innocence that certainly never existed.