Out Of All Sorts

[rejectomorph]

Sunday, I conclude, is not the day for grocery shopping. Well, what day is? But Sunday is worse. The stores always seem to have lots of gaps in their stock, plus the Sunday customers seem odder than those who shop on weekdays. I'd enjoy the oddness were I involved in some task other than shopping, but in the supermarket all I want is to get it over with and get out, and the strange child doing ballet twirls along the aisle while wearing stiff butterfly wings is more a hindrance than a source of amusement.

And I forgot to buy cat food, which means I'll have to go back within a few days. And what with Butch being out of commission it's not been a good week, so I'm especially displeased by the prospect of additional irritations. It makes me cranky. I'm not even amused by Portia, who is currently in the rafters of the garage catching and eating moths. I'm still busy missing my mouse.



Sunday Verse

Still Life – Portrait

by Pierre Reverdy


Cigarette papers papers and tobacco pouch
Life
Ought to be like painting
Still
And literature
A hairless head
Eyes straight
Comma
A flat nose a plane
On the forehead
My portrait
My heart beats
It's an alarm clock
In the mirror I'm full length
My head smokes

–translated by Kenneth Rexroth