rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Twenty-Two, Day Eleven

Yesterday I said that the blur that was Saturday was all but forgotten. It's not surprising that I didn't remember it, since it hadn't happened yet. It was Friday I'd actually forgotten. Only now have I forgotten Saturday. I've lost track of days before, but not as thoroughly as this one. Even now it feels like Monday is beginning, but it's only the Sunday I thought Saturday was. Sorry, Saturday. And sorry, Sunday. I posted your verse a day early.

On actual Saturday I got up at close to three o'clock in the afternoon, I drank orange juice as though it were morning, I went outside and smelled smoke, saw the brown overcast of the sky, listened to the racket of traffic on the freeway and heard the absence of bird songs, went back into the air conditioned dimness and turned on the Internet. Ah, that's like a drink to an alcoholic. Fall into the series of tubes, never escape.

Hours pass and I realize it is still Saturday, and then it is midnight and not, and then I remember I've forgotten to eat since afternoon when I ate the cold donut from the unopened package I'd forgotten to remove from the refrigerator the night before. The night I didn't know when it was. So eventually I made a sandwich, because who wants to cook when the world is being cooked?

It may be a bit less hot than originally predicted today, as the smoke will block some of the sunlight. Small mercies. It will still be hot, and I'll still hideout in my air conditioned apartment. If the power stays on, anyway. The water level of Oroville dam just dropped to the point where they can no longer operate the hydroelectric power plant. Fortunately that's only one percent of the state's electricity, so I'm not expecting an outage, unless some drunken sot knocks down a local power pole on which my building is dependent. I lower the odds of that myself by not driving. You're welcome, Chico.




Sunday Re-Verse



Let Me Die A Youngman's Death


by Roger McGough


Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death

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