It is a bit unnerving how hot this house stays at night, even when the outdoor temperature has dropped considerably. Some small fissure in the walls of Hell must lead directly to a spot under my foundations. But if so, it closes up in winter.
As Sluggo chose to entertain himself by showing me his blue screen several times tonight, I did a great deal of doing nothing. I briefly considered going out to the garage to make another stab at sorting through the boxes, but decided against such a vulgar display of ambition. Instead, I watched the Coupling marathon on BBC America. Yay, cable. Then I read some Gilbert Sorrentino from the long-lost volume I unearthed Saturday night. I found a brief poem I like very much, and I lack the patience to wait until next Sunday to post it, so I am presenting for the first (and possibly only) time--
Monday Verse
Oleo Strut
by Gilbert Sorrentino
Blood a rarest oil
secret in this hot machine.
The ceaseless landings
the meadows, beaches
sudden bumps and shocks
loud slams: these hopeless
cities dying in their glamour.
It is not that the body
is unaffected, but that the
heart, the dark heart
takes so much so
quietly.
Broken hearts even function on
till the body shakes itself apart.
